


The Eagle's Two Swords

by wanderingflame



Series: Two Swords 'Verse [1]
Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-30
Updated: 2011-06-30
Packaged: 2017-10-23 19:00:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 25,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/253813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderingflame/pseuds/wanderingflame
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad al-Tayyib is bored and restless, so when he comes across the brothers after a unsatisfying skirmish with Robert de Sable's men, he decides, on a whim, to bring them back to his castle.  Malik is less than grateful but must accept there are larger issues at hand than just their freedom when he realizes what Altaïr wants from him...<i>and</i> his little brother.  Meanwhile, Robert remains a threat, continuing to harry and evade Altaïr's men but seemingly drawing no closer to the castle</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> "al-Tayyib" literally means "good, good-natured, or generous".
> 
> ~~~ signifies a change in POV.
> 
> I owe [Everbright](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Everbright) HUGE thanks for beta-ing this monstrosity and doing so on a deadline. I simply could not have done it without her help. There were several walls I hit while writing this that she helped me overcome, not to mention all the awkward sentences, ugly word choices and typos that she weeded out.
> 
> This was originally written for Round 2 of the LJ Assassin's Creed Big Bang Challenge and posted [here](http://ac-bigbang.livejournal.com/10429.html).

Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad watched from his saddle as the remaining enemy soldiers disappeared into the rocky, scrub-covered hills. The battle had quickly turned to a rout and he was a little disappointed there had been no need to wade into the fray himself. When his men first brought word of the enemy encampment, he had suspected that it wouldn’t present much of a challenge, but he’d jumped on the opportunity to get out of the castle and break up the monotony of his days; he only wished it had lasted longer.

The Frenchman Robert de Sable had been making a nuisance of himself recently, trying to sneak his men closer and closer to the castle at Masyaf. He wouldn’t declare outright war—not after the trouncing Altaïr had given him the last time he charged the walls—but for the most part, these little camps were all too easy to clear out. Only every now and then was there a group that actually put up a fight.

Adding insult to injury was Robert’s habit of collecting people as slaves. Altaïr had servants aplenty but releasing these people into the desert was as good as a death sentence. His reputation for sparing the lives of the innocent had therefore earned him quite a collection. While some were his own subjects—and ultimately safer within Masyaf’s walls—it was still a burden to keep taking people in, especially when there were those with no work skills at all.

He was distracted from his thoughts as one of his soldiers approached and bowed.

“The enemy is retreating, Your Majesty. You have once again led us to victory.”

Altaïr stifled the urge to roll his eyes, since their ambush was hardly a fitting battle to claim victory over. Still, he supposed it was only proper to congratulate one's ruler after a fight. More than likely, this particular soldier was just hoping to ingratiate himself with his sultan, who had lately proven to be short on patience. Altaïr looked away, out over the deserted camp through which his soldiers wandered, occasionally ducking into tents.

“Did we at least find anything worth our journey out here?” he asked and out of the corner of his eye, he saw the man wince.

“Ah, well, i-it seems this was a sort of temporary camp—most likely they would have moved on in a few days—and therefore there isn’t much in the way of supplies. We did find some crates of rations and spices. And, uh, some slaves.”

At this news, Altaïr did roll his eyes. _Of course_ there were more slaves. With his luck, it was probably half-starved females that were untrained but so desperate to be taken in, they offered themselves as a reward. He now had more than enough concubines but none stirred his interest much beyond a little heavy petting. They were too soft, too subservient, too…boring.

“Um, if I may, Your Majesty?” the man at his side spoke up hesitantly, keeping his eyes on the horse’s neck until Altaïr made an impatient gesture, giving him leave to continue. “We’ve had a little trouble. One of the slaves is resisting…” He chanced a glance up, dropping his gaze immediately when he saw Altaïr’s frown.

Resistance…now that was unusual. He debated whether to order the slave be killed—the soldiers were told to capture them alive unless instructed otherwise—but found his curiosity got the better of him.

“Show me.”

The soldier led him further into the camp, around a small cluster of tents to where a group of his men were gathered, facing off against a pair dressed in little more than rags. Only one of his soldiers had drawn his weapon, but the others waited with their hands on their hilts, ready to join the fight if necessary. Their opponent was a lean man with sun-darkened skin, black hair and a ragged goatee. He held a dagger before him in a ready stance but Altaïr was surprised to see his left arm was missing. It ended in a stump just below the shoulder and although it was wrapped in cloth, it didn’t seem like a recent injury. The stranger’s dark eyes watched the soldiers, calculating and fierce, and as Altaïr came into view they alighted on him, narrowing slightly.

Half-hidden behind the slave with the dagger was a slightly younger man with unusual pale blue eyes. Despite that difference, they looked enough alike for Altaïr to guess they were brothers. This one lacked his brother's scruff and watched the stand-off with a touch of worry in his expression.

When the soldiers noticed their ruler, all but the one with his sword out dropped immediately to their knees; the one left standing gave his best impression of a bow while keeping his eyes trained on the slaves. Altaïr noticed that one of the men kneeling was cradling his arm, his shirt stained dark red.

“What happened?” he asked curtly and all the men flinched.

“A thousand pardons, Your Majesty. We found these two being kept in the captain’s tent. After I removed the chains and brought them out, the one with the knife struck me.” The sultan's golden eyes flickered from the speaker to the slave and back.

“With your own dagger, I see.” The man paled and his companions shifted nervously. Altaïr was not known for his tolerance of incompetence.

During all of this, the slaves had been watching, the one with the dagger warily and his companion with some curiosity. When Altaïr slid from his horse, both tensed and the one in front actually backed up a step, crowding his brother against the rock wall. The soldiers watched in silence as their sultan walked over to their comrade who had remained standing.

“Your dagger,” Altaïr said, holding out his hand. The other man seemed confused for a moment—after all, Altaïr was openly armed—but then he fumbled to unsheathe the weapon before his hesitation could be misconstrued as disobedience. He passed it to Altaïr hilt-first, his eyes still downcast, but Altaïr sensed the soldier's curiosity. When the sultan stepped past, towards the slaves, he heard the soldiers all jump to their feet; however, whatever protests they’d thought to voice died instantly when he cast a sharp look over his shoulder.

Turning back to his prey, Altaïr advanced slowly, lifting the dagger into a ready stance that mimicked the slave’s. He watched those dark eyes shift from the soldiers and back to this new opponent. If he realized who Altaïr was, it didn’t seem to affect him, as he locked eyes with the sultan fearlessly. Altaïr felt a smirk tug at the corner of his lips.

He slashed without warning at the slave’s stomach only to be deflected and immediately counter-attacked. As they traded blows, the speed with which the man moved convinced Altaïr that he must have been trained to fight; surprisingly, he seemed unhindered by only having one arm. The dagger whipped out with the swiftness of a striking snake but Altaïr only evaded it, using his attacks to test his opponent’s skill rather than subdue him. The other man seemed to sense this and his lips curled in a soundless snarl. After another swipe of the dagger—slicing close enough that Altaïr heard one of his men hiss in alarm—the slave glanced over his shoulder at his companion, who had been watching tensely.

Instead of joining the attack as Altaïr expected, the blue-eyed slave bolted, or at least he tried to. Even as the one-armed man lunged forward to distract him, Altaïr side-stepped the attack and whipped his left arm up. The fleeing young man suddenly lurched to a halt as a blade appeared in the air before him. His eyes darted to Altaïr’s wrist, where the weapon extended from a bracer half-hidden by his sleeve, and then his gaze shifted to his brother, his expression almost apologetic. Altaïr moved his left arm until he felt the pressure of skin against his blade and glanced over his shoulder. The first slave was frozen, eyes locked on his brother’s throat, and for a long time, no one moved.

“Drop it,” Altaïr said simply. Dark, furious eyes shifted to his and the man's lips pressed together in an unhappy line, but a beat later, he straightened and dropped the dagger. Altaïr raised his voice without looking away. “Rope.”

He heard his men scrambling and then the entire group was hurrying over, their last few steps wary, as if expecting the slave to attack at any moment. He wasn’t paying attention to them, though, instead watching Altaïr. Though his stance was stiff and his head held high in defiance, he didn’t resist when the soldiers grabbed him. There was a moment of confusion where they seemed unsure how to bind someone with only one arm, but finally they came up with a solution. Pulling his arm behind his back, they looped the rope around his wrist, wrapped it around his waist, and then brought it back to his wrist.

Altaïr watched with a smirk, amused by that gaze that promised violence, before turning away and stepping closer to the other slave. He lowered his arm, the blade retracting with a quick hiss, and took the young man’s chin with his fingers, tilting his head up to bare his throat. There was only the smallest of cuts; hardly even enough to warrant the bead of blood that had welled up. Altaïr slid his hand down the slave’s neck, his fingers curling around the nape as his thumb rubbed at the mark he’d left. Surprisingly, even with a stranger's hand at his throat, the young man didn’t tremble. He seemed wholly focused on holding perfectly still, as if worried another blade would appear if he moved. He did jump slightly when two of Altaïr’s men grabbed his hands to bind them behind his back. What Altaïr found most curious was that there seemed to be a question lurking in those bewildered blue eyes.

He turned away and saw one of his men had brought his horse over. Swinging up into the saddle, he gazed down at his latest acquisitions.

“Bring them to the castle,” he instructed, then noticed the grim looks some of his men were giving the one-armed slave. His eyes narrowed. “Know that any man that lays a finger on either of them will answer to me.” Everyone looked surprised by this statement, but his soldiers’ expressions were tinged with fear.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” they were quick to respond. Altaïr turned his horse around and gave it a light squeeze with his knees, urging it into a trot. He didn’t have to look back to know at least one of the slaves was watching him. He could feel the man’s gaze like a burn on his back and it made him smile.

~~~

Malik was furious. Although he walked along in silence, Kadar could tell he was seething under his skin. The soldiers were not any friendlier. They seemed ambivalent about Kadar but they glared openly at Malik. It was clear that if they had not received a very clear warning from the sultan, this journey would have been much more unpleasant. At one point he thought one of the men—possibly the one Malik had injured—had tried tripping his brother because he seemed to stumble over nothing. Before he could lose his balance, another of the soldiers caught him by the arm and steadied him. Malik had jerked away, hissing a curse and glaring, but no one admitted to it and soon they were urged onward again.

They were taken out of the camp and across a stretch of barren, dusty earth before coming to a box-like wagon hidden behind an outcrop of rock, along with the soldiers’ mounts. Here, they were loaded into the wagon with the others who had been taken from the camp and after a few minutes, it lurched into motion. There were holes peppering the walls of the vehicle but it was still stuffy and warm inside. The other slaves—mostly women with a few men, all older—looked at the brothers with open curiosity, probably since they had _not_ been bound. Kadar tried to ignore them and instead turned to face his brother in the dimness of the cart.

“Malik?” he whispered tentatively. He heard his brother sigh.

“Yes, Kadar?”

“Why do you think he spared us?”

“I don’t know.” There was a long silence and he could feel his brother shifting, possibly trying to twist out of the rope; eventually, Malik growled an oath and sagged against the wagon wall. Kadar leaned against him, wishing his arms were free so he could find some small comfort in a hug.

Only two weeks had passed since they’d been ripped from their home by Robert de Sable and thrust into this life as slaves. The fact that they had been kept together was due not to luck but Malik's agreement to be civil. Kadar suspected Robert might not have agreed had there not been so many of his own men curled up on the ground, bleeding out. He gave orders to keep them together—albeit in chains—and left the camp, probably to rally with another company of men for more raiding.

Hours earlier, it had been Malik who heard the hushed footsteps outside their tent. He’d woken Kadar with a hand over his mouth, only letting go once he was sure Kadar would be silent. When the ambush was sprung and the captain had rushed out to rally his men, Malik immediately set about trying to free them, despite the fact that the key had left with the captain. When the sounds of fighting had calmed and he’d still had no luck breaking their leg irons, it was Kadar who peeked out the front flap to see soldiers in unfamiliar uniforms headed their way.

“Say nothing,” Malik had instructed. “Do what they say but stick close to me. I’ll find a way to get us out of this.”

Unfortunately, his plan had not gone as he’d hoped and now, as they rode towards some unseen castle, Kadar wondered if Malik was plotting something new.

He must have fallen asleep because the next time he opened his eyes, he heard shouting outside the cart and the door was abruptly swung open, allowing in the bright sunshine. Many of the slaves flinched and squinted as their eyes adjusted. Sometime during the trip, Kadar had slid down so that his head lay in Malik’s lap and now he wiggled into an upright position as one of the soldiers began ushering them out. A look over his shoulder at his brother showed Malik was still tense and scowling.

The soldier who’d opened the doors had to help him and Malik out of the wagon since they couldn’t use their hands, and Kadar was surprised to see they were being led in a different direction than the others. He glanced around worriedly, wondering if this soldier had decided to disobey his orders. Unfortunately,  
Kadar realized that even if that was true, there was no one he could call on for help.

They appeared to have arrived in a sprawling courtyard of hard-packed earth, marked here and there with occasional tufts of grass. It was encircled by a towering stone wall and when Kadar checked behind him, he saw a gate where they must have come in. Up ahead, a castle loomed, casting its shadow over half the yard. Kadar felt a bit stunned by all this but when he looked at Malik, he saw his brother’s eyes darting around, methodically taking in every detail.

Their escort kept them moving with a vice-like grip on their arms and when he reached a wooden door leading into the castle, Kadar was the one he released in order to knock. Apparently he had been told not to give Malik any chances. Not that running away at this point would do any good; Kadar doubted he’d get halfway to the gate before being riddled with arrows from above.

The door opened to reveal a stern-faced woman a few years older than them, her brown hair pulled back in a tight bun. Kadar was surprised that she was of the same fair-skinned complexion as Robert's men, and that she was attired in a modified version of the sultan's uniform. This one was cut to be svelter and lacked the bulky armor, but it still seemed unusual garb for a woman. She looked over the two slaves and then sniffed, turning her annoyance on their guard.

“And what’s this supposed to be?”

“They’re for the sultan,” the man said simply, shrugging. The woman looked shocked for a moment and then she shook her head, closing her eyes briefly as she raised a hand to rub at her temple.

“Lord, grant me mercy from that man’s madness,” she muttered. The soldier simply waited, apparently unconcerned, but her words only confused Kadar. When he looked at Malik, he saw the emotion reflected on his brother’s face.

“Fine,” the woman finally sighed. “Bring them in.” She turned and strode away and the soldier gave Kadar a light push to follow. He did so, hearing his brother and their escort fall in behind. The woman led them down a narrow hallway lit by torches and sparsely decorated with the occasional tapestry. She eventually stopped beside a doorway. “I can take them from here.”

“This one is trouble,” the solder said, and Kadar guessed he was gesturing to Malik based on the way the woman looked past him. She simply raised an eyebrow.

“This is not the first time I’ve dealt with his type.” She shot a thin-lipped smile over Kadar’s shoulder and he wondered at Malik’s expression but dared not turn around to see.

“As you say, Mistress,” the soldier replied and then the sound of his footsteps retreated down the hall. The woman turned her sharp gaze on Kadar and her smile softened slightly. She pulled a key from her pocket and unlocked the door, motioning for him to enter.

As he stepped through, he looked around with a bit of wonder. The room they had entered was spacious and well-lit in comparison to the hallway they’d been in. Six pillars wrapped in red cloth ran from ceiling to floor, framing a shallow pool at the center of the room where a statue of a large, long-necked bird seemed caught in the moment of taking flight. Its wings spread out over the edges of the pool and the sheer size was like nothing Kadar had ever seen. He was so captivated by the detail put into the statue, that it took him a moment to notice the women.

There were only five of them, lounging on oversized cushions set up near the pool’s edge, but as shocking as it had been to see a woman in a man’s uniform, these women wore hardly anything at all. Instead of a common dress, their gauzy silk clothes were little more than a band across the chest and a flowing skirt with a high slit that revealed a generous amount of leg when they moved. The women looked up in surprise and curiosity when Kadar and Malik were let in, and a few actually ducked behind pillars with embarrassed gasps.

Even in his stunned stupor, the click of the lock engaging made Kadar’s heart sink and he realized that as strange as this place was, it was still a prison. The woman who’d led them here came to stand in front of them, still smiling thinly.

“Welcome to the sultan’s harem.”


	2. Chapter 2

The words hit Malik like a fist in the gut, temporarily knocking aside his frustration and leaving him numb with shock. His mind tried to make sense of what she’d said and he wondered if he’d somehow heard her wrong. The revealing clothes of the women in this room suggested not and when the woman in charge looked between the two brothers and laughed—a dry, mirthless sound—that was the final piece that convinced him.

“No one told you, I suppose? Pah, why would they? Well, consider yourselves lucky. It appears you will be the first men to stay here who remain…intact.” There was a glimmer of dark humor in her eyes that, combined with her smirk, made Malik guess the truth behind her words. He shifted uneasily, the thought no less uncomfortable even if she _had_ said it wouldn’t come to pass. Instead, he looked around warily, noting that there were two corridors splitting off from this room but only one pair of guards standing by, looking bored. Malik winced and felt a bit of pity for the men who were men no more. When he returned his gaze to the woman, Malik found her watching him still. He was uncomfortably sure she knew what he was thinking.

“The sultan is the ruler of Masyaf but in this place, I am the law. If you break the rules, there are punishments, and the severity of your disobedience determines the number of lashes you receive. Since you seem quite…spirited, I will make this simple for you.” Her eyes narrowed as she looked at him and him only. “Any punishment your brother incurs, he receives. However, any punishment _you_ incur will be given to your brother. If you doubt my words, you may ask Hibah and Sahar. They learned the hard way that I mean what I say.”

Malik looked at Kadar, who had paled slightly but was clearly trying to put on a brave face. _He_ wasn’t the one who would get into trouble and obviously the woman had seen that. Malik would kill before letting anyone harm his brother, but these restrictions put their chances of getting out in jeopardy. He felt his defiance waver, especially when Kadar gave a slight nod, as if he understood Malik's intentions to escape. Malik decided to set aside his plans for now, until after he could judge how closely they would be watched.

The woman had been waiting with her arms crossed, letting her words sink in, and her grim look eased somewhat when the brothers looked at her again.

“If you will behave, I will release you,” she said and although it wasn’t a question, Malik nodded. A knife appeared in her hands as she stepped toward Kadar and both men twitched in surprise, neither having noticed her wearing a weapon. Malik revised his original impression of this woman. If he were to consider escape, she was going to make it much trickier.

With deft twists, she cut the ropes from Kadar’s wrists and stepped around in front of him as he murmured his thanks. She tilted his chin up and looked at him for a moment before smiling and moving on to Malik.

“I think I see why he picked you,” she said thoughtfully. “ _Both_ of you.” Malik felt something cool slide against the skin of his wrist and then there was a short tug and the pressure from the rope was gone. He pulled the remaining pieces off him quickly, flexing his hand to regain some of the feeling in it. The woman gestured for them to follow as she headed towards one of the branching hallways. Malik hesitated and Kadar looked at him questioningly, but the door behind them was useless without the key to unlock it. Stifling the urge to sigh in frustration, he stalked after the woman, trying to ignore the whispers of the slaves they left behind in the main room.

As they walked, the woman’s back presented a tempting opportunity but he was wary to strike when he hadn’t seen where she put the knife. He saw no obvious sheath on her and wondered if it was anything like the strange wrist-blade the sultan had used on Kadar.

“You will be bathed and dressed appropriately so you may be brought before the sultan for his inspection. You are free to travel through most of the castle; the guards will tell you where you cannot go. Unless the sultan has plans, your days are your own, and if you are lucky, he may choose you to keep him company during the night.” She glanced back with a wry smile and Malik could not help forming the sneer of disgust he felt in response, which caused her to laugh again. “Oh, it is not all that bad…” The words surprised him but she didn’t elaborate any further.

They came to their destination after several turns and one intersection. The bathing chamber gleamed in the sunlight that came through the skylight high above them. There was a much larger pool here and Malik was shocked to see more women, this time in various states of undress. He felt his face warm involuntarily as he averted his eyes, glancing back at Kadar, who was bright red and staring at the floor. Malik could practically feel the amusement radiating from their guide but she merely turned away from them and clapped her hands.

“Clear this hall,” she instructed and Malik kept his gaze down as he listened to the splashes of those in the pool climbing out, and the whisper of bare feet on tiles as the women brushed by. He heard a few giggles but kept his expression in a stoic mask, at least until they had all gone. Only once it was quiet did he chance looking up and noticed another pair of guards, these two as bored as the ones in the first room. The woman gestured to the water.

“Clean yourselves up. I will return with some clothes for you.” She walked past them and then paused, looking back. “What are your names?”

Malik clenched his jaw, instinctively stubborn, but after Kadar quietly relayed his name, he finally muttered, “Malik.” The woman nodded.

“You may call me Mistress Thorpe,” she said and then headed back the way they had come, leaving Malik to frown after her before turning his attention to the room.

The skylight was, unfortunately, high above the pool and looked sturdy enough to resist being broken. Not to mention, it would be difficult to reach when the walls were all smooth tile, slick from the moisture in the air. The two guards were on the opposite side of the pool, watching them with the same air of boredom, but Malik suspected their attitude would change if he and his brother suddenly took off. Not like they had anywhere to go.

Frustrated, Malik ran his hand over his short-cropped hair and then shifted his gaze to Kadar, who shuffled closer. He put his arm around his brother’s shoulders and hugged him close.

“I will think of something,” he said quietly, wary of how easily sound would echo in this room. Kadar tucked his head under Malik’s chin and nodded, his arms circling his brother’s waist and for a little while they just stood like that.

~~~

Altaïr drummed his fingers on the pillow under his hand as he waited for the newest members of his harem to arrive. He hadn’t heard of any trouble from the solider who’d delivered them into Maria’s hands, so it shouldn’t be long before they were brought in for him to see, as was the tradition. He knew it only seemed to be taking longer because he was actually excited this time. It had been months since he felt this way.

The older of the two, the one with only one arm, had a fierceness in his eyes that made Altaïr’s pulse race. Getting him into bed would be a challenge but he suspected it would be worth the effort if he could convince the man to come along willingly. Even so, he imagined every advance would be met with a snarl or a hiss; he just couldn’t picture the man lying back and accepting the pleasure. As for the younger one, Altaïr suspected he was a virgin and was looking forward to removing _that_ particular veil from his eyes. There was a quiet strength in those pale blue eyes that intrigued and enticed Altaïr.

Footsteps approaching had him sitting up straighter, anticipating the moment when his “guests” arrived. Maria strode in first, a hand on her hip and a wry smile gracing her lips. She gave Altaïr a knowing look as she approached but he didn’t bother to reprimand her for it. Part of why he’d kept her around was because of how they each seemed to rub the other the wrong way. At first, she’d been feisty in bed, until she’d grown tired of it and then her constant complaints had grated on Altaïr’s nerves until he finally put her in charge of affairs inside the castle. He’d meant it as a punishment— _he_ certainly couldn’t stand listening to their requests and complaints—but strangely, the responsibility suited her. He had suspected Maria would find some measure of amusement in his decision to keep this pair.

She had done well finding them clothes. He did not have the proper provisions for male concubines which was probably why what they wore looked suspiciously like it had come from his own wardrobe. He shot a look at Maria but she just raised her chin slightly, as if challenging him to question her decision. As with many things, it was best to let it go. Besides, he had little use for such frivolous garb, especially not when he felt most comfortable in his armor and white mantle of office.

The outfits were cut identically: billowy silk pants that sat low on the hips and bound tight at the ankle, and the short vest that barely came to the end of the ribcage, held closed by a thin chain across the chest. The combination created a tantalizing strip of skin that Altaïr's eyes lingered on before taking in the rest. The younger wore a deep blue that made his eyes appear even lighter, while the other wore black, and both had white embroidery decorating their vests. Maria had even gone to the trouble to find a white cloth to wrap the missing arm in giving it a cleaner look than his previous bandage. Although the younger one stood slightly behind his brother, he didn’t seem to be trying to hide. When Altaïr turned his attention to the elder, he found those dark eyes narrowed in warning, but he only smirked. Oh yes, luring the little one away was going to be great fun.

“His Majesty, Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad al-Tayyib,” Maria said as she bowed and the former slaves mimicked her. She straightened and motioned to the elder first, then his brother. “I present Malik and Kadar, Your Majesty.” When Altaïr inclined his head slightly, she left the pair and moved to stand to the side of the dais.

“No family name?” Altaïr asked with mild curiosity.

“Al-Sayf,” Malik said after a long pause.

The name didn’t ring any bells but then, Altaïr hadn’t expected it would. He sat back in his high-backed chair—a less ornate and gaudy throne than his predecessor’s—and regarded the two for a moment. With the hood of his robe up, he knew some of his expression would be shadowed, but his half-smile was easy to see.

“Killing you would be a waste,” he began, “especially when only one of you is responsible for harming my soldier. Instead, I thought I would be generous and welcome you into my harem.”

“Is that not a little unusual?” Malik asked in a measured tone, his anger carefully reigned in. He only added, “Your Majesty,” as an afterthought when Altaïr tilted his head expectantly.

“Perhaps,” the sultan admitted, “but the loyalty of my subjects was earned in battle, so they will indulge me my vices. Besides, I’ve grown weary of what I have.”

“If they bore you so, why not release them?” Malik went on, his voice tight. Altaïr felt a tinge of irritation and pointedly did not look at Maria. No doubt she was smirking at this comment since it was an argument they had had before. Altaïr wanted the women gone.

It had seemed fun at first, when he’d had women to pamper him and dote on his every need, and the first few weeks after starting his “collection” were an exhausted, sated blur. Then, during a raid on one of Robert's encampments, Altaïr had found Maria. She'd been left behind as a decoy so the commander Altaïr had wanted dead could escape. Taming her had presented a challenge he could not ignore, rather like taming a lioness, and his obsession with her had made the others jealous. That hadn’t been helped when he put her in charge but she’d stamped out the dissenters easily enough. After that, he saw that none of the others had the same spirit or even seemed interested in _him_. All they cared about was sleeping with Masyaf’s sultan and bragging about it to the other girls.

When he’d told Maria of his decision to send them away, she just shook her head.

“A sultan’s power comes not just from his army but also his wealth, and I don’t mean just coins. When he has something others covet, he will be seen as the greater power.”

Altaïr was tempted to throw this line of reasoning at Malik but suspected it wouldn't do more than irritate the man. Instead, he allowed a smirk to curl his lips.

“I think if you ask them, you will find they don't want to be released. Many of them even begged me to take them.” As he'd expected, the double entendre did not go unnoticed by Malik, whose expression tightened with a flash of disgust.

“I have few rules; I'm sure Maria has gone over them already,” Altaïr went on. “For you, though, I'll add one: no weapons. If anything even remotely resembling a weapon is found in your possession, you will be punished.” Interestingly, Malik's eyes flickered to Maria when Altaïr said this. He wondered if the woman had already gone over punishments. “The same goes for attempting to leave without permission.” Malik's gaze returned to the sultan and Altaïr smirked again. “Follow these simple rules and I'm sure you will enjoy your new life here.”

“And how are we to spend our days?” Malik asked.

“There are games the women play,” Altaïr replied with a shrug. “Some have learned to dance for my entertainment.” Malik rolled his eyes at this suggestion but Altaïr had expected as much. He wasn't really sure how his women kept boredom at bay. It was enough that they did so and seemed content. He lifted his hand in a dismissive wave. “Mistress Thorpe will show you back to your new quarters.” There would be time enough for playing with these two later. Still, as they followed Maria towards the door, Altaïr couldn't help one last remark.

“I assume I can trust you not to touch the women in the harem? It would be a shame to remove that which gives you such appeal.”

Kadar paled at the veiled threat but Malik simply gave him a cool look, choosing not to rise to the bait. As Maria led them out, Altaïr smiled to himself. His decision to bring the pair back was turning out far more interesting than he'd imagined.

~~~

Malik’s lips curled in a soundless, frustrated snarl as they followed Mistress Thorpe through the halls. The man’s attitude was irritatingly smug. Perhaps that was normal for a man of his status, but it was obvious the sultan had been fishing for a reaction from Malik with many of his comments. And the way his eyes kept sliding to Kadar… Malik clenched his hand in a fist and let out a breath through gritted teeth, trying not to see red. He would not let that arrogant bastard touch his little brother.

Kadar must have sensed his rising temper because a hand touched Malik’s fist, and he glanced over to see his brother had quickened his steps so that he walked alongside Malik, instead of behind him. Malik forced himself to relax, uncurling his fingers.

“I’m fine,” he mouthed, not wanting to alert their guide to his current state of mind. Kadar’s expression was creased with worry but he nodded and then their attention was on Mistress Thorpe, who had come to a stop ahead of them, in front of a wide, stone archway. She gestured for them to precede her through it.

The room they had come to looked like a large, communal sleeping chamber, with cushions of various sizes littering the floor. There were more women here—eight in total—and Malik recognized a few from when they’d first arrived. Some were napping while others were lounging or talking in soft tones. Those who were awake nudged the sleepers until everyone was sitting up and eying the brothers with curiosity. Their attention shifted as the mistress stepped forward.

“This is Malik and Kadar,” she said. “As some of you have no doubt heard, His Majesty brought them back to be a part of his harem.”

There were several gasps at this and Malik met their stares with his chin high, sensing Kadar shift uncomfortably beside him. He saw a few gazes dart down to his missing arm but he had long grown accustomed to _those_ looks. The women exchanged glances, obviously unsure of how to deal with this news, until someone spoke up.

“We cannot have _men_ here!” a voice exclaimed, though the speaker wasn’t visible; she sounded outraged. “What if they try to...to force us?”

Malik snorted and Mistress Thorpe spared him an amused smile before turning her attention to the gathered women.

“The sultan has given them clear instructions regarding their behavior,” she said dryly, “nevermind the fact there are quite a few more of you than them. Let it also be known that any woman making advances towards them will be cast out.” The women grew still and pale at these words. Malik thought it was a mild punishment compared to the one he and Kadar were threatened with, but at least the women seemed to be taking it seriously. The last thing he needed was a woman attempting to seduce him.

Since there seemed to be no more questions, Mistress Thorpe turned to the brothers and explained how this chamber was central to the large section of the castle they were given free roam of. She detailed how to get to the bathing areas, where to find the servants if they needed anything, and told them to notify a guard if they needed to speak to her personally. After that, she left them to the mercy of the women, half of whom seemed to be watching with curiosity. The others—including the woman who had spoken—seemed downright hostile to their presence. The speaker stepped through the group to stand before the others, as if their leader.

“I don't know what game the sultan is playing,” she began, eyes narrowed, “but he will realize soon enough he has no taste for such rough pleasures.” She smiled cruelly. “Then _you_ will be the ones cast out.” Malik regarded her with a bland, uncaring expression.

“He told us he was bored with you,” he replied and gave her an obvious once-over. “Somehow, I’m not surprised.” The woman flushed bright red, eyes livid, and stepped forward with her hand raised. Malik caught her by the wrist before the slap connected and yanked her closer as he lowered his voice. “You may be content with your life as well-kept whore, but we did not ask for this. I suggest you keep to yourself and we shall do the same.” When he shoved her away, she might have fallen if several of the other women hadn’t rushed forward to steady her. She was as white as a sheet now but collected herself enough to shoot him a venomous look as she stalked out, followed by those who had helped her.

When Malik looked at the remaining women, they shifted uneasily and a few even stepped back. He smiled thinly at them, hoping they would remember that incident and leave them be. He walked past their hushed observers, Kadar at his heels, and moved to the far corner of the room that had been unoccupied even before everyone gathered at the entrance. He sat down on a cushion so that he faced the main archway and looked up as his brother dropped down next to him. Kadar looked worn out by their whirlwind morning, so Malik reached out to rest a hand on his shoulder.

“You can rest,” he said. “I’ll make sure no one disturbs you.” Kadar shot him a look that was half gratitude, half question but he didn’t argue; instead, he curled up on his side so that his back rested against his brother’s leg. Malik gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze and before long, Kadar was asleep and Malik was left alone to think, and to plan.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Shesh besh_ is what backgammon is known as in the Middle East.

Harem life, as Kadar found after a couple of days, was better than the life of a slave but ultimately more boring. There was little to do beyond lounging, bathing and reading. The small library Malik found tucked away in a side corridor had been a welcome surprise and they both spent several hours a day there. There were also games, as the sultan had said, but even when Kadar managed to convince his brother to play _shesh besh_ or mancala with him, his attention was elsewhere.

The board was set up in the large communal chamber that functioned as both a lounging area and their bedroom. While they played, Malik would either be eyeing the guards’ rotations or on the lookout for Mistress Thorpe, who checked on the harem at least once a day. Despite these distractions, Malik usually won but what frustrated Kadar was how distant Malik had become. It was bad enough that their lives had changed so radically over the last few weeks, but now he felt he was losing his brother too.

The days dragged on and began to run together in his mind. They would wake in the sleeping chamber, often before any of the other women, and take breakfast out in the open-air courtyard at the center of the harem. Food was available whenever they needed it, but there was a grand dining hall where they were served mid-day and evening meals. Altaïr had been present for one of those occasions, and although Malik made sure they sat at the opposite end of the table from the sultan, Kadar felt his eyes on him through most of the meal. He suspected Malik felt the same, judging from the tension radiated from his brother.

It was obvious the women adored the sultan and whenever he was around—at dinner and when twice he’d visited the harem chambers—they fawned on him. Considering they were little more than well-treated slaves, Kadar thought this odd but the idea of talking to them about it seemed out of the question. The women were clearly afraid of Malik—in addition to his sour mood, his missing arm seemed to make them nervous—and he rarely left his little brother's side.

After three days of their new life in the castle, however, Malik grew restless and began exploring the limits of their freedom, leaving Kadar to sit in boredom. The second time this happened, once it was apparent Malik wasn't returning immediately, a group of four concubines startled Kadar by cornering him at the table where he waited. Apparently he wasn't the only one who was curious because no sooner had they blurted out their names—which he forgot almost immediately—than they suddenly began asking questions: where were the brothers from, how did they meet the sultan, what had he said at the time, did they see him fighting anyone? Kadar avoided answering the last question; he was certain that telling these women Malik had fought the sultan would only worsen their prejudices against him.

“Has anyone from the harem ever requested their freedom?” he asked tentatively, once there was a lull in the conversation. The women seemed bewildered by the question.

“Why would we do that?” one replied. Kadar thought her name might be Adiva.

“The sultan has given us a life of luxury and asks very little in return,” another explained.

“And what he does ask of us, he makes sure we enjoy!” Adiva pointed out and the women giggled. Kadar felt his ears burning and hoped the blush would not creep any lower, but Adiva seemed to take pity on him and sobered. “Out there, we have nothing. Those of us who were married were made widows by Robert de Sable's men, and what homes we had were burned to the ground. The sultan has given us shelter, fine clothes to wear and...other pleasantries.” She exchanged secretive smiles with the others before returning her gaze to him. “How can we refuse that?”

It wasn't hard to understand their logic when put that way. Kadar knew on some level that he and Malik were in a similar situation: were they to leave, they likely had no place to return to. But telling his brother that wouldn't do any good.

As if the thought had summoned him, Malik strode into the room, his face set in its usual thin-lipped scowl. The women caught sight of him and scattered but Malik paid them little attention as he crossed the room to drop into the seat across from Kadar. He looked more agitated than usual so Kadar gave him a few minutes before speaking.

“Did something happen?”

“No,” Malik replied, his tone clipped. “Only for someone who claims not to be holding people against their will, there are very few exits I have seen, and none without guards watching them.”

Kadar suspected this was as much to keep people from entering as it was to keep them from leaving, but decided it would be wise to keep that to himself.

“Were you thinking of...?” he asked instead, trailed off and looking around. Although there was no one near them to overhear, he still felt nervous about voicing plans for escape out loud, especially when he wasn't sure what the punishment would be for getting caught.

Malik looked at him sharply but after a moment of scrutiny, some of the tension left his expression.

“Don't worry yourself needlessly,” he said quietly, and he turned in his chair to reach out and ruffle Kadar's hair. “I won't let anyone harm you.” He seemed to be waiting for a response so Kadar finally nodded. The last remnants of frustration left Malik's face as he gave his brother a small smile. “Shall we play a game?” He motioned to the mancala stones, still set up as they'd let them. Kadar nodded again and began rearranging the stones for a new game, but he couldn't help thinking that Malik had not actually answered his question.

~~~

Maria had learned to step softly, but Altaïr was trained to be ever-vigilant so he heard her as she approached. It was unlikely that one of his regular guardsmen would have found him here, but Maria, on the other hand, knew his usual haunts all too well.

His favorite retreat when he needed to think was the top of the castle's lone tower. From there, everything looked so small and insignificant; it was easy to avoid distractions and sort through a problem. Today he had his reasons for wanting to be closer to the ground, and so he'd chosen a spot on the high wall that encircled the castle. Here, along the inner edge, he could crouch in one of crenels on the battlements and remain unseen, unless someone happened to be walking by. This particular perch looked down on the courtyard at the center of the castle, currently unoccupied.

Although Altaïr kept still and hoped to be overlooked, Maria came to a stop just beside his perch.

“The girls tell me you haven’t taken anyone to bed since the brothers arrived,” she said, her tone mild. Altaïr spared her a flat, thin-lipped look.

“It’s not unusual for me to keep a few days to myself,” he replied. “I am merely mortal, after all.” Maria chuckled and stepped closer.

“You forget, it had been some time before that as well. Do you not get lonely at night?” Her voice had taken on a teasing edge that had a smile tugging at his lips. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her gaze drop pointedly. “Perhaps you're having trouble…?”

Maria was quick but Altaïr was still the faster of the two. She tried to step back when he uncoiled, but he sprang forward, grabbed her wrist, and yanked her forward, turning to pin her between his body and the parapet. She laughed as she was caught and he was reminded briefly of lost days, when they'd played this cat-and-mouse game quite often. He leaned in close, taking in the mischievous light in her eyes and the familiar scent of her perfume.

“You are welcome to find out,” he murmured. “I assure you, everything is in working order.” True to his words, he felt a stir of desire coil within him, his body remembering how things had once been between them. He wondered briefly if he could kiss her or if she would hit him for the attempt.

“Altaïr,” she said and her tone—amused but with a note of exasperated warning—settled his indecision. Without a word, he stepped back so she could slip free, his expression sobering as he cast his gaze on the courtyard again. He expected her to leave but she surprised him by instead leaning her hip against the parapet, her tone softening. “What troubles you so?”

Before he could answer, a flash of color in the courtyard below caught his attention. It was Malik, dressed in an outfit of deep burgundy, with Kadar trailing behind; his own clothes were a bright gold fabric that was dazzling in the sun. Maria, seeing Altaïr's gaze was focused below, shifted to watch with him as the siblings stripped off their vests and dropped them in the shade of the large tree at the center of the courtyard. After some brief stretching, they began to jog around the perimeter. Maria murmured something, sounding intrigued, but Altaïr was unsurprised. It had become something of a routine for them, one he'd discovered by accident. Kadar seemed to treat it as merely a way to kill time but his brother was obviously trying not to let their lifestyle soften him.

Unaware of their audience, the brothers jogged easily until Kadar leaned closer and said something to Malik, though the words didn’t carry to where Altaïr and Maria were standing. Abruptly, he took off like a spooked rabbit, and Altaïr found he was gripping the edge of the parapet, ready to jump down and intercept the young man if necessary. But as they watched, Malik chased after his brother and for a few minutes, they wove around the courtyard, Kadar’s laughter echoing as he dodged Malik’s attempts to grab him.

He could only keep away for so long, though, and when he stumbled, his arms wind-milling comically, Malik tackled him to the ground. They sprawled in the grass on their backs, chests heaving from the run, and Altaïr saw that, for once, Malik’s expression was not frozen in a sour scowl. His smile was faint, not nearly as broad as Kadar's, but it was a precious sight indeed. Altaïr found himself leaning forward unconsciously, trying to see it better; when he realized what he was doing, he straightened with a frown. Eventually, Malik’s good cheer faded and he rolled over to begin his push-ups. It was a mesmerizing sight but after a moment, Altaïr turned away, aware that Maria was watching him.

“I have never kept anyone here against their will,” he grumbled after a moment of silence. “This hostility grows wearisome.”

He had expected Malik would relent after a couple of days, once he realized the life he had been given wasn't so awful after all. Wasn't it obvious they were safer within Masyaf's walls than out where Robert's men still roamed?

“The younger one is not so hostile,” Maria remarked, her voice once again mild. He shot her a look, uncertain if she was teasing him again but her expression was perfectly neutral.

“That hardly matters when his brother guards him so closely,” Altaïr growled. He had imagined a much more pleasant battle of wills but even Maria's hostility—when she was first brought to the castle—was no match for Malik's.

“A man cannot be ever-watchful forever,” Maria said vaguely and only spread her hands when he shot her a questioning glance. “If it is the sultan's will to release them, simply give the order. I will see it is done.” She was undaunted by his scowl and apparently planned to wait as long as she had to for an answer. He stifled a growl of frustration as he stalked past her.

“They stay,” was all he said, tossed back over his shoulder, and then he disappeared into the castle.

~~~

Kadar had known it was only a matter of time before they were chosen to fulfill their duties as members of the sultan’s harem. But from the stories whispered amongst the women, he was not expecting to wake in the middle of the night only to find the sultan himself crouched beside him, a hand on his arm. It was dark in the sleeping quarters, the only light coming from the torches in the hall, so the man was light from behind and his face was shadowed. Kadar still recognized the line of his hood and his voice when he held out a hand and said, “Come with me.”

The man released his hand after leading him silently out of the sleeping chamber and past a doorway he recognized as the main audience chamber. Eventually, they reached a smaller door flanked by two soldiers. They came to attention once the sultan was in view and one opened the door for their master, closing it once Kadar had followed the sultan inside. His heart was pounding with trepidation but he still couldn't help looking around with some curiosity.

The sultan's private rooms were plainer than he'd expected. Even as unexpectedly simple as the decorations for the castle were in general, this room seemed to have just enough luxury to suit someone of higher standings without any unnecessary embellishments. There was a large bed to the right that was scattered with pillows and a table beside it with a large basin and pitcher. There was a doorway on the far left of the room that Kadar guessed may have led to a proper bathing chamber, but aside from the armor stand and small rack of weapons, there was very little else to look at, besides the sultan himself. The man had moved to stand beside the bed, his hood pushed back and those strange golden eyes watching Kadar intently. He felt his cheeks warm under the attention and dropped his gaze to the floor.

"Come here."

Kadar tried to swallow his anxiety as he crossed to where the sultan waited. Despite the hushed gossiping of the women in the harem, he wasn't exactly sure what his "duties" were, now that he was here. He hoped the sultan would stick to giving instructions and prayed he wouldn't realize--or worse, get mad about--how inexperienced Kadar was.

"You can look at me." He tried not to blush deeper at the amusement in the sultan's voice and instead raised his gaze and attempted to channel some of the defiance his brother seemed to have in endless supply. Although Altaïr's lips quirked, as if holding back a chuckle, he sensed approval from the other man. Even so, Kadar's nervousness returned when Altaïr settled his hands on the young man's hips.

"I have never raped anyone, Kadar," the sultan said quietly, his eyes suddenly serious. "I only allow the willing in my bed and I'm not looking to change that." Kadar nodded, a little surprised but unsure if that meant he could decline now or needed to wait to be asked. Altaïr's thumbs were brushing against the skin just above his waistband, his hands a steadying weight on his hips, and Kadar felt tingles radiating from that simple touch, as if his whole body were resonating with the feeling.

"Have you ever been with a man?" the sultan asked but Kadar just shook his head, not trusting his voice to be steady. There was a brief pause and then Altaïr nodded, as if he'd confirmed something. Kadar wondered if that was when he should have lied and said he'd been with a woman, at the very least. Too late now. A hand slid around to the small of his back and he was pulled against Altaïr.

"If you truly don't like this, you can ask to stop," Altaïr murmured, his voice a sinful ripple across Kadar's nerves. "However, I think I should at least demonstrate what you would be turning down."

He dipped his head but instead of the kiss Kadar was expecting, he lowered his lips to Kadar's neck, his tongue rasping over Kadar's rapidly beating pulse. The sultan nibbled his way up to an ear and Kadar shivered as hot breath preceded the wet swipe of a tongue. Feeling awkwardly uncertain, he rested his hands on Altaïr's arms and closed his eyes as that mouth drifted to do the same to the other side.

It felt incredible, the sensations vibrating across his nerves and straight down to his groin, where the first few tendrils of arousal were beginning to spread. He gasped and clenched his hands in Altaïr's white robes when the man suddenly sucked hard on a bit of skin just under the vest's collar. Altaïr lifted his head finally, smirking, and then took Kadar's mouth in a deep kiss, his tongue pushing in to move against Kadar's. The young man did his best to respond, feeling a little overwhelmed, but he knew he was blushing at his own lack of experience when Altaïr finally pulled back.

"So, should I stop?" the man asked and Kadar, too caught up in the sensations, was nodding before he really heard the question.

"Wait, I mean, no! Please, um," Kadar stammered, trying to collect his wits. "I would like to continue."

There was wicked amusement in Altaïr's eyes as his smirk broadened and then Kadar had to bite back a yelp as he was suddenly turned and tossed onto the bed. The sultan was on him in an instant, pinning him with another hungry kiss and bringing their hips together. Kadar's groan was muffled as his half-hard erection rubbed against an answering firmness. Altaïr shifted above him, pausing between kisses to shrug out of his robes. When he was stripped to just his breeches, he slid a hand down Kadar's chest and abdomen, seeming to watch for a reaction as he cupped his fingers around Kadar's arousal. Kadar couldn’t help the whimper that escaped him as that hand rubbed against him.

“Touch me.” The command was whispered against his throat and Kadar hesitantly did so, running his hands up Altaïr’s back, feeling the shift of muscles beneath strangely pale skin. It felt almost taboo to touch skin that was always guarded beneath armor and weapons. He slid a hand into surprisingly soft hair and then he gasped as Altaïr’s fingers finally slipped beneath the waistband of his pants to curl around his cock.

Firm strokes soon had him panting and writhing beneath the other man, barely able to catch a breath between kisses, and a desperate whine escaped him when the sultan pulled his hand free. It was apparent why a moment later when Altaïr tugged at Kadar's pants, forcing him to lift his hips so they could be pulled down and tossed aside. The vest was disposed of next and calloused hands roamed over Kadar's chest as he fought the instinctive urge to bring his knees together. He was completely exposed and even more nervous because of it but then Altaïr kissed him again and the urgency in it had Kadar tangling his fingers in the sultan's hair and arching up in a silent plea to be touched again.

But Altaïr was pulling away, sitting up and undoing the string on his pants and Kadar couldn't help following the line of hair down his stomach to watch, almost hypnotized, as Altaïr pushed the pants down and freed his own arousal. As the other man wiggled out of the pants, Kadar felt another spike in his pulse. He may be inexperienced but he wasn't completely ignorant; he had no doubts of what role he would play as the evening's events progressed. Some of this anxiety must have shown in his expression because Altaïr chuckled as he stretched out over Kadar again.

“Not tonight, I think,” the sultan murmured. “Tonight you can just use your hands.” His eyes were bright with amusement and seemed to say, _Your move,_. Kadar swallowed his nervousness and nodded, sliding his hand down Altaïr’s chest to the erection pressed against his thigh.

Kadar's grip was tentative at first but as a shudder rolled through Altaïr and he moaned against the young man's shoulder, he became bolder. The cock in his hand was different from his own, slightly thicker and foreign to the touch, but when he tightened his grip and twisted like he knew _he_ liked, the sultan growled and thrust against him. The movement bumped their hips together and Kadar bit his lip as his own neglected arousal earned a teasing brush. He wanted to take himself in hand to ease the ache Altaïr had built within him, but he wasn't sure if that was allowed.

There was precum on his fingers, making his hand slide more easily, but calloused fingers suddenly wrapping around his own length made it difficult to concentrate. Altaïr’s strokes were as unrelenting as before and Kadar could feel his focus slipping as the wave of pleasure rose within him. Altaïr was still thrusting against him, his own breath grown ragged as their hands and cocks bumped.

“Say my name,” he commanded and it was the roughness in his voice that was Kadar’s undoing. With the sultan’s name on his lips, he came, his whole body trembling as Altaïr’s fingers continued to milk him through it. He was only half-aware of Altaïr pushing aside his now-slack fingers to finish himself with a few quick strokes, groaning as his spilled his release across Kadar’s stomach. The man was panting as he sagged onto the bed, his body a warm weight along Kadar’s side and his face tucked against Kadar’s neck. For a minute or two, they just breathed. When Altaïr finally lifted his head, he looked smug and sated.

“So,” he began and Kadar felt a finger trailing through the mess on his stomach. “You enjoyed that?” The answer was obvious but Kadar still nodded with a blush. “Good.” The word was practically a purr and then Altaïr was leaning close to kiss him languidly. “Next time, I want to hear you more.” Kadar’s heartbeat stuttered at the man’s words and somewhere in the back of his mind, he began to see why the women of the harem fawned over this man.

~~~

Malik's eyes flew open, his heart racing and a feeling of dread filling him as if waking from a nightmare. As he sat up and looked around, Kadar's absence made it all too clear what was wrong. It was possible he had only woken and gone to relieve himself, but somehow Malik knew that wasn't the case. He lay back against the cushions, his stomach churning even as he clenched his hand in a fist.

He'd been waiting for the sultan to make his move, trying to be sure he was always at Kadar's side, or at least near enough. He had intended to argue with the man when he came claim his right to bed them. Malik, at least, had experience with both sexes and as much as he detested the thought of offering himself to the sultan, he would have done so to spare his brother. But he'd missed his chance, somehow slept through Kadar getting up and leaving, and knowing his brother, Malik was sure he went without a fight. He lay there, fuming helplessly and sick to his stomach with thoughts of what the sultan could be forcing his little brother to do. All these years he had protected Kadar, and now he'd failed because he’d been _sleeping_.

Hours passed as Malik waited and every sound, no matter how minute, made him tense in anticipation of Kadar's return. He was exhausted from the worry and anger by the time he heard footsteps in the corridor. He guessed it was must be close to dawn and he strained his ears as the footsteps came to a stop just outside the room. He heard the murmur of voices, too quiet to hear clearly, and then a familiar figure appeared in the archway, partially lit by the torches in the corridor. Malik felt his heart freeze when he saw Kadar was smiling.

His brother nodded in response to whatever the other person—the sultan, more than likely, or a guard—was saying and then he turned to enter the room. He took two steps before he noticed Malik, sitting up amongst the others, and then he froze. Malik couldn't see his face anymore as Kadar had moved away from the light, but he struggled to keep his own expression neutral. He held out a hand and waited until Kadar tentatively continued forward.

The hand that took Malik's was trembling, but he tugged on it, pulling his brother down to lie beside him. Malik could smell the faint scent of sweat and sex and had to grit his teeth not to snarl in response. Instead, he asked in a voice that was far too calm for how he felt inside, “Did he hurt you?”

“No, Malik, it was...” Whatever Kadar saw on Malik's face seemed to change his mind about what he was going to say. The smile from before was gone and when he looked down, Malik thought he saw shame creeping into his expression. His next words came out in a whisper so small, Malik barely heard them. “I'm sorry.”

Malik wanted to scream, to smash or beat or tear something apart until his rage had been vented, but instead he leaned over to put his arm around his brother, pulling him close. He could feel Kadar's whole body was trembling as his hand had, probably in fear of what his brother would say, of the acidic words that would rain down on Kadar for allowing himself to be used in such a way. Malik guessed all of this and it only lent further fuel to his fury, but that fury was not centered on Kadar. Kadar wasn't the one who'd tied them up and dragged them back to this castle as if they were mere cattle, dressing them up and declaring them members of a harem because of some idle whim.

Malik hugged his brother and struggled to gain control of his anger, lest he accidentally lash out at Kadar. Eventually, he let out a sigh.

“You've done nothing wrong,” he murmured in as level of a voice as he could manage. He felt the hiccupping breath Kadar took and then his brother's arms went around him, clinging desperately. He wasn't crying but Malik suspected he was close to it. When they were younger, the thought of facing his brother's wrath often reduced Kadar to tears and babbled apologies. There were none of those now, just the fierce hug and hitching breaths that eventually evened out as Malik rubbed his back. Only when he was sure Kadar had slipped into sleep did he ease away from his brother. He spent the rest of the night—what little was left—staring at the ceiling, his earlier rage returning to churn within him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Evangeline Todd](http://yaoi.y-gallery.net/user/bdelliumonyx/) drew a part of the scene with Altaïr and Kadar, which can be viewed at the Big Bang Archive [here](http://ac-bigbang.livejournal.com/10520.html).


	4. Chapter 4

Altaïr half-expected to awake with a dagger at his throat, to find Malik had come to wreak vengeance on him for defiling his little brother. Instead, when he finally rose hours after leaving Kadar at the harem's archway, he was somewhat disappointed to find the man hadn't shown up. Reason told him it would be better to wait at least a day before visiting the harem—there was no way Malik would mistake where his brother had been—but the temptation was too strong to resist. After bathing and dressing in his usual robes, he left his chambers and was pleased when he came across Maria in the halls, heading in the same direction. He knew she often checked on the harem in the morning, and this would allow him to use walking with her as an excuse, instead of it being obvious where he was going. Her smile was knowing as he fell into step beside her.

“Enjoyed yourself?” she asked and his broad smirk was answer enough, causing her to laugh softly. “I guess his youthful energy made up for what experience he lacked?” His silence only seemed to add to her amusement.

Altaïr was a little surprised when his pulse quickened as they neared the harem's entrance, his fingers clenching and relaxing in loose fists at his side. It was a habit he fell into before a battle, but he tried to brush it off. He hoped Malik was smart enough not to attack him on sight; even so, he knew better than to expect a warm welcome from the man.

As they came to the chamber's archway, Altaïr saw that many of the occupants were just beginning to rise. The first woman to see him uttered a soft gasp and then hurried over to drop to her knees; soon the others were doing the same. Altaïr greeted them distractedly, instead scanning the room for a familiar pair of dark brown eyes. They were already fixed on him and if Altaïr had thought they were filled with hostility before, they were practically murderous now.

Malik and Kadar were both sitting up, though Kadar looked like he'd just awoken; as Altaïr's gaze met Malik's, the other man seemed visibly bristle. The sultan shifted his eyes to Kadar and was delighted by the faint flush that rose to the young man's cheeks and the shy smile he received in return. Luckily for Kadar, Malik was too intent on staring Altaïr down to notice, and the soft expression vanished as soon as Malik turned his attention back to his brother. He snapped something that made Kadar looked down and then Altaïr's attention was forced away from the brothers by the women now clamoring around him. He managed a vague conversation but when a messenger showed up with news from a scouting party, he was grateful for the excuse to leave.

The days that followed had Altaïr spending more and more time with Kadar. He continued to sneak the young man away at night, although each time Kadar was led out of the chamber, he would cast a look over his shoulder that was half-guilt, half-pain. Still, once he was in Altaïr's bed, it was easy enough to make him forget what was troubling him.

Each time he was tumbled into the sultan's bed, Kadar became more comfortable with their actions and his touches grew more bold as a result. It was a welcome relief from constantly being asked, “What would you like of me now, Your Majesty?” Even so, Kadar occasionally would hesitate and meet Altaïr's eyes—as if seeking permission—in a way that Altaïr found quite charming. It made him want to preserve that shyness, and so he tried to go slowly but eventually he grew tired of frantic rutting and was ready for more.

On this night, after leading the young man back to his room and stripping him down, he pulled away from Kadar's eager kisses to bring out the oil they would need. Kadar's eyes widened when he saw the bottle, but he said nothing, only reached for the sultan to draw his mouth back to his own. He was putting on a brave front, but Altaïr could feel him trembling.

“Just relax,” he whispered against Kadar's lips, then sat up to pour some of the oil into his palm. He coated one finger liberally, and then slid his fingers teasingly down Kadar's cock before moving past his balls to his entrance. Kadar whimpered as he began to ease the first finger in but Altaïr leaned forward to take his mouth again, their tongues tangling until Kadar had relaxed enough to take Altaïr's finger up to the knuckle. The sultan withdrew to add more oil and this time, he let his mouth wander down Kadar's throat and chest to latch onto a nipple, nipping and teasing with teeth and tongue as he worked a second finger in.

It had been some time since Altaïr had been able to take pleasure this way but he told himself not to rush. Kadar made an enticing sight, flushed and writhing against the sheets, a sense of impatience to his movements as Altaïr moved his fingers slowly in and out. Altaïr waited for the young man to finally look at him, pale blue eyes asking what he was too shy to say out loud, and then the sultan curled his fingers and pressed deep.

Kadar's startled cry sent a jolt through Altaïr and he swallowed the next shout with a hungry kiss. He spread his fingers once last time before he deemed Kadar prepared enough, the shouts loud enough. Shifting his hand to Kadar’s hip, he rolled them over so that Kadar was on top, his legs spread wide as he straddled the sultan. Pale blue eyes looked suddenly uncertain but as realization dawned, he blushed, and Altaïr couldn't help smiling; he had grown quite fond of Kadar's occasional moments of bashfulness.

“At your own pace,” he murmured, though he couldn't help rolling his hips against Kadar's, feeling his cock—slick with the same oil—sliding against the crease of his cheeks. Kadar shivers at the feeling and then he raises himself to his knees, reaching down to grip Altaïr's cock as he slowly sat back down.

The urge to thrust up into that tight heat surged through Altaïr but he only clenched his teeth, trying to hold still. Kadar had his eyes squeezed shut, one hand braced on the sultan's chest, and he shuddered when he finally came to rest with his ass against Altaïr's pelvis. He was panting and his arousal had flagged but when Altaïr took it in hand, the young man jerked, involuntarily clenching around the shaft within him and making the sultan groan.

“Move your hips,” he said almost desperately, and coaxed Kadar into a slow, rocking motion with one hand, even as he stroked the young man's arousal with the other. He could tell Kadar was trying to comply but appeared overwhelmed by everything he was feeling. Altaïr gave him a minute to find the rhythm and then he began to thrust slowly against him, using a hand on Kadar's hip to steady him.

The first time his cock brushed the spot he'd teased with his fingers, Kadar's whole body shook and his movements faltered. As Altaïr continued to rock up into him with unerring aim, Kadar's breath came in little hitches that told Altaïr he wouldn't last much longer. He pulled the young man down for another kiss—tongues tangling and breaths mixing—and wrapped an arm around him, trapping him against his chest as he thrust without reservation.

“A-Altaïr!” Kadar finally gasped. His cock, trapped between them, twitched as he spilled across both their stomachs, but Altaïr continued to thrust through the rhythmic clenches around him until it was suddenly too much. With a grateful groan, he gave in to the wave of pleasure as it crashed over him.

As the post-coital fog settled over him, he relaxed his grip on Kadar’s hip and brushed his fingers over the red marks he’d left, earning a shiver in response. Despite the mess between them, he kept his arm around Kadar and when lips pressed tentatively against his collarbone, he felt a lazy smile curl his lips.

It would be even harder now—perhaps impossible—to get Malik into bed. He'd been viciously unwilling before out of sheer dislike for Altaïr, but each night the sultan kept Kadar away from his brother, the more that anger would fester. He wasn't giving up, though. Kadar might be sufficient unto the day, but Altaïr wanted to hold close both his troubles.

~~~

‘No weapons,’ the sultan had said and Malik thought it likely that he, or Mistress Thorpe, had passed the word along to the guards. Despite being well armed, they watched Malik closely whenever he was near. If both his arms had been intact, being without a weapon would not have been a problem. He doubted any of the men he’d seen were a match for him, and even with his handicap, he suspected he could still disarm one. But there were always two guards, which presented a problem. In order to ensure the brothers didn't have to fight their way out, Malik decided they would need a hostage.

The harem women were no good because it was obvious to Malik that Altaïr cared little for them. How they failed to see this was beyond him. The sultan himself would have been perfect but that damned wristblade was so easily hidden, it was hard to tell when he wore it and when he didn’t. Instead, Malik decided that Mistress Thorpe was their best chance. He had only seen her and the sultan together twice, and they didn't seem close, but it was still clear she was an important part of his household.

To keep her from fighting back he would need to catch her off-guard. That meant finding a dagger or knife he could keep hidden until the right moment. With a blade at her throat, he imagined she would be compliant enough. Once they were out in the courtyard, they only needed to keep her as far as the gates before they let her go. Kadar wouldn’t like the plan, but for love of Malik, he would go along with it.

Thoughts of his brother made his stomach twist again, a mixture of misery and fury, but it also reminded him of what hung in the balance. If he wasn’t careful, Kadar would end up paying for Malik’s plot before they ever had a chance to try it.

Kadar had not come back last night, _again_ , but Malik knew where he was. Everyone in the harem knew, although the women seemed unable to understand it. Perhaps they never thought the sultan was earnest, but they began to whisper amongst themselves now that he had turned his attentions away from them. Not wanting to overhear just what exactly they thought Kadar might be doing, Malik fled to his only refuge in this godforsaken castle: the library.

Unfortunately, the hour spent surrounded by dusty tomes did nothing to calm him down, and eventually he left in as terrible a mood as when he'd arrived. He was so caught up in his thoughts, he missed the sound of footsteps approaching and stepped out of the room just as a young serving girl passed the door. She shrieked, startled by his sudden appearance, and the pitcher of water she'd been carrying slipped from her grasp. It barely missed landing on Malik’s foot but they were both hit by the splash as ceramic shattered and water went everywhere. For a moment, there was a stunned silence.

“Idiot girl,” Malik growled, but even as he spoke, he saw her eyes rolling back in a faint. Instinct had him stepping forward to grab her arm and she hung from his one-handed grip like a doll. A sharp pain in his foot reminded him of the mess on the floor and when he glanced down, he saw he’d stepped onto a piece of the pitcher; thin tendrils of red were now spreading through the puddle of water. As he stared at the blood, an idea began to form in his mind.

He eased the girl down as gently as he could, careful to avoid the smashed pottery, and then lifted his foot to inspect the damage. The sound of footsteps approaching him warned him he didn’t have much time. The piece he pulled from his foot was too small for what he needed, but the edges were more than sharp enough. He crouched down, selected a piece about the size of his thumb—any larger and it might be missed—and carefully folded it into his palm just as two guards came hurrying around the corner. They came to an abrupt halt, clearly confused by the scene that lay before them: Malik leaned against the wall, his injured foot lifted slightly, while the girl still sprawled beside the mess of water, blood and shards of the pitcher.

“This girl practically ran into me when I was leaving the library,” Malik snapped. “Apparently she was so startled, she dropped the pitcher and then fainted. I cut my foot when I tried to catch her.” He threw down the bloodied piece and their eyes widened at the sight. They exchanged a look and then one went running back the way they’d come, probably to fetch someone of higher authority to handle the situation.

Across from the library was a small garden; a few benches arranged beneath a roof latticework covered in vines. Malik had always suspected this was why the library went unnoticed but he was grateful for its presence now as he limped towards the closest bench. His foot throbbed with each step and he was aware he was trailing blood across the stones, but he finally reached his destination and sank down gratefully. The remaining guard watched him tensely, almost looking like he wanted to protest. Malik rolled his eyes.

“I’m not going to bleed out while we wait for the mistress. You could at least check on the girl. I did my best not to drop her on the broken pieces but my concerns were elsewhere.” He gestured to his foot as he propped it up on his knee. The guard stared a moment more before moving to the girl's side, watching Malik as if wary of attack.

As soon as he bent to check on the serving girl, Malik reached over to the potted plant that sat beside his bench and pushed the sharp wedge of pottery as deep into the dirt as he could. He prayed it was hidden, too afraid to draw attention to himself by looking, and instead examined the sole of his foot when the guard looked at him again. He faintly felt relief that his clothes were black, so the dirt he brushed off his fingers wouldn't show.

The wound wasn't too terrible, although it began bleeding freely after he'd removed the shard from it. He left it alone, instead watching as the guard managed to wake the serving girl up. Rapidly approaching footsteps had them all looking up to see Mistress Thorpe, the guard's partner, and several servants bearing towels, a broom, and a basket of what looked like bandages. The mistress took one look at the scene and pressed her lips together in a thin line.

“What happened?”

The serving girl seemed in danger of fainting again but stumbled over an apology for having dropped the pitcher as the guard helped her to her feet. Malik watched with feigned disinterest, thinking only of his makeshift weapon, buried in plain sight beside him. Mistress Thorpe finally cut off the poor girl off and instructed her to help with cleaning up the broken pottery before moving to where Malik sat.

“You seem unperturbed,” she remarked, waving impatiently for the girl carrying the basket of supplies to hurry over. Malik shrugged, returning the woman's gaze evenly.

“It was an accident and it is not a grave injury,” he replied. The girl with the bandages murmured an apology before beginning to swipe at the cut on his foot with a wet cloth. Malik clenched his jaw against a hiss of pain and looked away, submitting to the treatment without a word. He could feel Mistress Thorpe watching him and wondered what she might suspect.

When the girl had finished wrapping his foot up, the mistress dismissed her. The other servants had cleaned up the mess and returned to their tasks, leaving just the guards waiting uncertainly in the corridor. Malik stood and tentatively eased his weight on the injured foot, noting that while it hurt, it wasn't unbearable. He'd certainly suffered worse. He shot a look of venom at his would-be nurse when she asked if he needed any medicine for the pain.

“Shall I help you back?” Mistress Thorpe asked, and Malik could hear the faint edge of humor in her voice.

“I can manage,” he said crisply, turning away and taking a few limping steps.

“The sultan would be most displeased if you were to injure yourself further out of stubbornness,” she continued. “Perhaps I should have the guards carry you?”

Malik paused, letting out a breath as he counted silently in his head and tried to calm down. When he turned to look behind him, he applauded himself on how calm he now appeared.

“I would be glad for your help,” he said. The woman's eyebrows lifted slightly—apparently impressed as well—but she refrained from commenting further. Instead, she came to stand beside him and he grudgingly put his arm over her shoulders. Together, they walked slowly back to the harem chambers.

Kadar was waiting when they arrived and immediately rushed over when he saw the bandage on Malik's foot. Mistress Thorpe left after Malik thanked her and then he gave his brother a brief summary of what had happened. He said nothing of the broken piece of pitcher he'd smuggled away. Kadar forced Malik to stretch out on the cushions in their corner of the room and wouldn't allow him to move for the rest of the day, aside from getting up to relieve himself; even then, he wouldn't leave Malik's side.

Somewhat unsurprisingly, Altaïr showed up later that evening to see how Malik was doing.

“If you need anything, simply ask,” the sultan said. “We have several well-trained doctors in the castle.”

Malik bit back a retort about the girl who'd originally cleaned the wound and said instead, “I'm not a stranger to pain. As long as I have fresh bandages, I will be fine.”

He was still seated on the cushions and the sultan was standing, so Malik was able to see a little more of his face under the hood. Altaïr's eyes darted to what remained of Malik's left arm and then returned to meet his own, and Malik was startled to realize Altaïr was the first person to look at him completely and utterly without pity or judgment. Instead, there seemed to be mild curiosity lurking in those golden eyes whenever they shifted to Malik's handicap. He struggled to keep his thoughts from showing as Altaïr's lips twitched.

“I will let you rest, then,” he said and after sparing a smile for Kadar, he turned and left the chamber. Malik realized later that was probably the most civil he had been since their arrival.

It was another day and a half before he could convince Kadar he was perfectly capable of getting up and moving around, despite a dull ache when he took a step. After enough grumbling about being bored and restless, he badgered his brother into helping him down to the library. Once there, it was easy enough to suggest they read in the garden, and while Kadar was staring up at the castle through the vines, Malik was able to quickly retrieve his weapon unnoticed.

Slipping it behind the last page of his book, he was pleased to note that it hardly made a difference. He'd chosen this book in particular because of the folded up map it contained, which already made it bulky. When they eventually retired to the harem chamber, he brought it back under the pretense of having something to read without Kadar fussing at him.

He tucked his prize under some cushions in their corner and over the next couple of days, he fell into the habit of slipping his hand beneath the pillow to press against the book. The firm wedge was unmistakable when felt from the right spot, and he took solace in checking it as nonchalantly as possible during the day. Now it was only a matter of waiting for his foot to heal so they wouldn't be hindered in their escape.

By the fifth day, there was hardly any pain when he walked and he decided he was healed enough. Now he only needed the mistress to get close enough for him to strike. He slipped a hand beneath the cushion to reassure himself he was ready but at first felt nothing inside the book. For a moment, he couldn't breathe and even his heart seemed to stop. He fought the urge to throw aside the pillow and rip open the book, but as his fingers pressed all over the cover and continue to feel no resistance from an object hidden within it, a sick dread swept through him.

The pottery shard was gone.


	5. Chapter 5

Altaïr frowned down at the map before him which was marked to show the latest locations where Robert's men had been spotted. He was trying to make sense of the man's tactics and finding it difficult. Although it appeared Robert was withdrawing his troops to a degree, they didn't seem to be retreating in any particular direction. He had expected his scouting parties to drive them towards one main hiding spot, where the rest of the army would be recuperating. If Altaïr could just find _that_ , he would ride out and be done with the nuisance. Robert de Sable would not be difficult to kill; it was merely _finding_ him that was the challenge.

Instead of waiting for his men to find the army, however, Altaïr had to keep recalling them from wandering too far from the castle. As it was, he had two groups of scouts farther than he liked, but they knew to return within a day to report their findings. Altaïr sighed as the map continued to stare up at him, revealing nothing. Robert was either incredibly stupid or up to no good, and the odds weighed heavily in favor of the latter possibility.

The rustle of someone walking in armor finally made him look up with a frown, but when he saw Maria step through the doorway, the sour expression eased.

“Maria,” he greeted, and motioned for her to join him at the table. “Come, see if you can help me figure out where your former commander will strike next.” When she hesitated, he realized her face was unusually somber. “What is it?”

Maria sighed—a resigned sound—and crossed the room to stand at his side. Without a word, she held out her hand, uncurling her fingers to show him what lay in her palm. It was a relatively small piece of broken pottery, and though he recognized it as belonging to the castle, its significance did not immediately become clear to him.

“What's this?” he asked.

“A weapon.”

Everything fell into place then and Maria dropped her gaze when she saw the realization dawn in his eyes. Altaïr reached out slowly to take the wedge, turning it over and running a thumb against the sharp edge. Looking back now, it was easy to assume that Malik had most likely picked it up the day he'd injured his foot. No wonder he'd been so mildly tempered recently; he was just biding his time. A cold fury settled like a stone in Altaïr's stomach and he turned back to the map, not seeing it as his hands clenched into fists on the table's surface. The edges of the makeshift weapon bit into his palm but he ignored the sting of pain.

“They have the same arrangement as Hibah and Sahar,” Maria said quietly. “I told them on the first day.”

“Of course,” he snapped. That meant Kadar would take the punishment, which was viciously unfair since he had done nothing; in fact, he actually _enjoyed_ the new life he'd been given. But that was why they made these rules, after all. A sibling's love was usually strong enough to reign in the troublemaker, but not always. It was probably the only reason Malik had not tried anything before now, but this was proof that he was considering it, and that was damning enough. Backing down from the commands he had issued was not an option for Altaïr.

He let out a deep breath and relaxed his hands so they lay palms-down on the table; the pottery still pressed against his skin but no longer stung as much.

“Kadar usually bathes around this time; if he is not there, he is more than likely in the harem. Malik is probably there as well,” he said, his tone deceptively calm. “Bring them before me in the main audience hall.”

He sensed Maria's reluctance to leave—she had diffused his temper on other occasions and was perhaps thinking of doing so now—but she merely gave a short bow.

“As you command,” she murmured and left the room.

Altaïr lifted his hand to examine the damage done by the makeshift weapon but the cuts were not deep. He wanted to hurl the shard against the wall, but shattering it would not change the outcome of what had been set into motion. Instead, he snatched it up and strode out of the room.

~~~

Malik could not remember a time he'd felt honest fear before. The potential loss of his brother was something he viewed as a threat—not a shapeless terror—and whenever that threat reared its head, he found ways to fight back. If Kadar was sick, Malik nursed him back to health. If they were being attacked, Malik fought like a demon to protect him. This was the first time he would be helpless to stop harm from coming to his little brother, and it did not sit easily with him.

Fear and guilt churned endlessly in stomach, for how long he couldn't say. Since discovering the would-be weapon was gone, he had been sitting in their corner, waiting for his delicate plans to collapse. He heard the women chatting amongst themselves but paid no attention to what they were saying. He didn't even realize Kadar had returned until his brother dropped down beside him.

“Malik, what are you thinking of?” Kadar asked, exasperated. “I've said your name twice.”

As Malik turned to look at his brother, the reality of the situation seemed to hit him all over again. Kadar's hair was still damp from bathing and his skin held a faint flush; somehow, it made him look younger than usual. He had no idea what Malik had done and the consequences that were to befall him.

“Kadar--”

Before Malik could explain, or apologize, or say _anything_ , footsteps approaching caught Kadar's attention and they both looked towards the entrance. The sight of Mistress Thorpe, flanked by two guards with more visible behind, made Malik's stomach twist again. He grabbed Kadar's arm.

“Kadar,” he said again, more sharply this time, but his brother wasn't paying attention. Instead, he watched as the small but ominous group crossed the chamber to surround them. Without a word, the brothers were hauled to their feet, a guard on either side, and then Mistress Thorpe was leading them out while the other concubines stared in shocked silence.

“What...what's going on?” Kadar asked once they were in the corridor, uncertainty mixing with worry in his voice for the first time. Mistress Thorpe kept her silence and Malik, behind both of them, couldn't make the necessary words form on his lips. Where before he would had fought off the guards' grip in order to walk unaided, now he just stared at the floor in shock and let them march him along. It wasn't until they were brought into the audience chamber, and Malik saw Altaïr on his throne, that the reality of the situation truly sunk in.

Altaïr's expression could have been carved from stone and though his hood hid his eyes, the set of his mouth spoke volumes of his current state of mind. He practically radiated an aura of fury, though Malik wasn't sure if it was because _he'd_ broken the rules or because Kadar was taking the punishment. He could feel that piercing, golden gaze drill through him as the guards brought them to a stop in front of the dais. Mistress Thorpe, standing just to the side but between them and the steps, finally turned to face them.

“You were told you could have no weapons but we found one in your possession,” she said simply. Altaïr's hand flashed and Malik flinched as a familiar piece of pottery fell down the carpeted stairs. Kadar stared like he was still trying to process what he was seeing while the mistress went on. “The punishment is twenty lashes.”

At her gesture, Kadar's handlers pulled him over to the whipping post that had been brought in. He was pushed, unresisting, to his knees, and his arms were wrapped around and secured to the post. There was fear in his expression, but it was obvious he was trying to fight it, to brace himself for what was coming. He wouldn't look at Malik and somehow that just made it worse, sparking a panic within his older brother. Malik hadn't realized he'd been trying to pull away until he felt the crushing grip on his shoulder pinning him in place.

“He’s done nothing wrong!” he cried, looking to Mistress Thorpe, who had moved to stand behind Kadar. He now saw she had a whip dangling from her hand. “ _I’m_ the one at fault.” She looked at him with something akin to pity in her eyes.

“I explained the rules. You knew the consequences.”

A scream of frustration welled in Malik's throat. What could he say, that he hadn’t believed her? From the moment she’d first explained how their punishments would be handled, he had known she was serious. But he’d thought he was smarter than them, thought he could keep his makeshift weapon a secret, and now Kadar was going to suffer for his pride. Twenty lashes wouldn’t kill him but having to watch it—and knowing he'd been the cause—might just break Malik.

The mistress turned to the sultan, who gave the signal to begin, but as she raised her hand, something inside Malik snapped. Slamming the heel of his foot down on one guard’s foot, he immediately twisted to knee the other in the stomach. As their grip slackened, he bolted across the room and threw himself to his knees in front of the sultan, head bowed. There was a tense moment of silence as he waited to feel the hidden blade in his neck—the soft hiss of its release was unmistakable—but when seconds passed and no deathblow came, he finally chanced a glance upwards. Altaïr’s eyes were slightly wider and his arm was raised, the hidden blade gleaming in the light, but his expression was still unreadable. Malik dropped his gaze and swallowed nervously, hating himself for what he planned to say.

“Please, Your Majesty, I beg you. Have mercy on my brother. He had no knowledge of my actions, I swear it. I will submit to any punishment if you will release him.”

It had to be the most he'd said to the sultan since their arrival at the castle. Malik licked his lips, staring at the tile he knelt on and waiting for an answer. He didn't realize he'd been holding his breath until—at the sound of the retracting blade—it left him in a rush.

“I am not without mercy,” Altaïr said slowly and another long pause followed his words. “ _Any_ punishment?” The sudden interest in his voice made Malik's lip curl in an instinctive snarl but he forced the reaction down, trying to show only compliance with his body language. Eventually, he heard Altaïr rise, and then his worn leather boots and the hem of his white robe came into Malik’s field of vision. “Stand up.” Malik did so, keeping his head down until calloused fingers tilted his chin up.

Altaïr was smirking, a predatory gleam in his eyes similar to the first time they’d met.

“I’m looking forward to holding you to that promise,” he murmured, only loud enough for them to hear. Malik felt a flash of heat rush through him and wasn’t sure if it was due to anger or something he refused to acknowledge. Altaïr turned away, gesturing over Malik’s shoulder. Malik waited as long as he could but when he heard footsteps retreating, he dared to look behind him.

The guards were leaving—Malik's pair looking somewhat bewildered by the change in events—and Mistress Thorpe was coiling her whip, her expression an enigmatic mask. Kadar's wrists had been freed but he simply sat where he was, looking at them in stunned silence. Before Malik could break free of his shock, his younger brother slowly rose to his feet and approached the throne.

“Your Majesty is too kind,” he said quietly and Malik was surprised to see Altaïr’s smirk falter, fondness entering his eyes. Then that golden gaze switched to him and some of the sharpness returned.

“Perhaps it will convince your brother I’m not the monster he thinks I am,” the sultan said. Malik bit back the retort that sprang to his lips, but Altaïr seemed to sense it; he smiled as he sat back down. “You two may leave. I need time to think of a suitable…punishment.” Malik just gritted his teeth and nodded, turning and ushering Kadar out with a hand on his back.

Once they were in the hall, far enough away from prying eyes, his anger evaporated and he crushed his little brother against him in the tightest hug one arm could provide. Despite the looming shadow of his own punishment, he was weak with relief that Kadar had been spared any pain.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, finding his voice suddenly tight. “I didn’t…” He trailed off, unsure how to continue. He wanted to say he didn’t mean to get caught but that would mean acknowledging that he had broken the rules with full knowledge of who would pay for it. When he finally released Kadar and stepped back, he felt somewhat better that his brother wasn't angry, although he also looked a little weak.

“It’s all right,” Kadar replied. “I would have been more worried if you had never taken steps to escape.” He paused, as worry settled in. “I hope you won't receive a harsher sentence for defending me.”

“A beating is not what he’ll want from me,” Malik muttered. “Come, don’t trouble yourself with it. Whatever happens, I am just glad you are safe.” He steered them back in the direction of their rooms, trying to put thoughts of the sultan—and his piercing golden eyes—out of his head. He would deal with that problem when the time came.

~~~

No summons had come for Malik by the next morning and Kadar could tell the waiting was eating away at his brother. He suggested sparring in the courtyard they usually ran laps around and that seemed to help for a little while. However, once they'd collapsed on the dusty ground, panting and grinning like fools, Kadar could see the unease creep back across Malik's face.

They had been drifting off to sleep the night before when the real meaning behind Malik's words hit Kadar like a shock of cold water. It made perfect sense, of course. Altaïr had made no moves towards Malik since their capture, seemingly content with occupying himself with Kadar, but perhaps he’d just been waiting for a chance like this. The sultan had said he wasn't a rapist, but coercion was apparently acceptable, if it landed Malik in his bed.

Thoughts of that bed brought a blush to Kadar’s cheeks and he glanced away, ready to blame it on the heat if Malik noticed. It was strange and a little awkward knowing the man he'd slept with intended to do the same with his brother. He wondered if Altaïr had just been settling for the younger brother, while in reality aiming for the elder. He always seemed sincere, even if it was in little ways, and there were few nights he _hadn't_ whisked Kadar away.

He suddenly realized how long he'd been silent, chewing on his lip and lost in his own thoughts, and he abruptly shook free of them. Malik was looking up, shading his eyes against the sun, and when Kadar followed Malik's gaze, he saw a glimpse of white atop the castle's tallest tower.

“It’s the sultan.”

Malik’s head whipped around when Kadar spoke, his eyes wide.

“ _What_?”

“He said there is a perch up there where he goes sometimes to think.” Kadar fought down another blush as that particular conversation returned to him. Altaïr had explained in great detail how he wanted to take Kadar against the stone floor of the tower, wondering if those below would mistake his cries for that of the eagles that nested there. Luckily, Malik was preoccupied and didn't notice his brother's embarrassment.

As they watched, the white shape stretched, as if the sultan had stood. Malik sat up with a frown.

“What is he--” But before Malik could finish the question, the sultan stepped off his perch.

Both brothers scrambled to their feet, horrified and unable to look away as the figure in white plummeted to the earth. It seemed to take an eternity, as if time had slowed, but the sultan fell gracefully, curling at the last minute to land on his back in a cart full of hay neither of them noticed. The pair was still staring, mouths hanging open, when the sultan climbed out, brushing the clinging bits of straw from his clothes before approaching them. He was smiling within the shadow of his hood.

“Possessing the will to take the leap of faith is one of the reasons I was chosen to rule,” he said and then paused, looking to Malik as if expecting some biting comment. The man was speechless and this only served to amuse the sultan, who went on. “I’ve decided on your punishment.” Instantly, Malik snapped free of his stupor, his expression tightening. “Come to my rooms after you’ve dined tonight.” Kadar glanced between the two, bracing for his brother's reaction.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Malik replied and his tone was so civil, even Kadar was impressed. The sultan inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the effort it cost Malik, and then his gaze shifted to Kadar. His smile left no doubt in Kadar's mind that he was still wanted; the look was almost a caress itself. Altaïr took his leave but as he brushed by his fingers ghosted across Kadar's stomach, just above the waistline. Kadar had to swallow a yelp and a shiver and glared after the man, who simply radiated amusement as he walked away.

When Kadar turned to Malik, his brother was watching the sultan's back with an unreadable expression. He had expected the usual vitriol in the wake of Altaïr's departure, but instead, the silence grew until Malik finally seemed to rouse from his own thoughts.

“Let's go inside and cool off,” he suggested. Nodding, Kadar followed him out of the sun, but as they headed for the bathing chambers, he wondered what it was that had Malik suddenly quiet.

~~~~

Malik ate quickly that night, barely tasting the food and only half-paying attention to the conversation Kadar kept up. He did at least wait for his brother to finish his own meal before rising to leave. There was an awkward moment where they both seemed on the verge of speaking, but when neither could figure out what to say, Malik finally gave up. As he crossed the room, he felt the eyes of the concubines on him and knew they would start gossiping the minute he stepped out.

What he had eaten sat like a stone in his stomach as he made his way through the halls. He was apprehensive about this meeting and annoyed because of it. He still didn't know _what_ his punishment would be but while it was easy to assume the man would demand sex, Malik would not have been surprised if the sultan had something more elaborate in mind.

When he was within sight of the guards framing the sultan's door, Malik lifted his chin slightly, bracing himself for some snide comment or jeering remark. He doubted his popularity with the soldiers had grown since word spread of his disobedience, but there were no rude words. The two men only made him wait until they had knocked and heard the required response of, “Enter.” Then they let him in and shut the door behind him.

Malik took in the sultan's room with a quick glance before turning his attention to the man sprawled on the bed. He was bare except for his breeches, and as unusual as that was, it was even stranger to see the hidden blade was missing. The sultan must have noticed Malik's surprise—and the furtive look as he attempted to locate the weapon—because he chuckled.

“I shouldn't be needing that tonight. Besides, my soldiers have their orders, should anything happen to me.” He didn't elaborate, but Malik knew it was a veiled threat against Kadar. He expected no less, even if the man did seem to have grown soft towards his younger brother. Without waiting for the sultan to beckon him close, Malik crossed to stand by the bed. He had only himself to blame for this situation, but he would be damned if he wouldn't keep his dignity.

He hadn't realized until seeing him now, up close and without his white mantle of office, just how young the sultan was. Although probably the same age as Malik, _Malik_ was not the one commanding an army, protecting a people, owning a harem. Tanned skin that had always been hidden before now revealed an assortment of scars, some thin white seams, others jagged lines. He was all muscle underneath taut skin, but Malik had expected that, having fought him and judged his strength. Anyone else would have called him attractive, but to Malik, that half-smirk took away the allure.

The sultan seemed to wait until Malik's observations were done and then he reached up to snag Malik's wrist and pulled the other man down. Malik fell on his side in the cushions, unable to catch himself as his only arm was caught in an iron grip, but as soon as Altaïr let go, he struggled to prop himself up on his elbow. Given the chance, he would have shifted away to put space between them, but the sultan stopped him by settling a hand on Malik's waist and leaning in.

“So...is it _this_ you hate?” Altaïr murmured, his fingers trailing in circles across bare skin. Malik was able to hold in a shiver, but the gooseflesh that spread from the sultan's touch gave him away. Altaïr chuckled as he ducked his head so that his lips hovered just over Malik's pulse. “Or is it me?”

The question was a whisper against his throat, but Malik could feel it shiver straight down his nerves to his groin. If the sultan got any closer, his thigh would undoubtedly brush Malik's stirring erection. It had been some years since his last assignation and it was clear his body welcomed the touch of another, despite what his mind thought. A shudder finally rolled through him as teeth nipped at his neck, and it occurred to Malik that he hadn't answered the question.

Admitting he didn’t mind a man’s attention was tantamount to giving Altaïr permission to continue, while speaking the truth about his feelings for the sultan was equally unwise. He doubted the man would honestly get mad, but considering he was supposed to be here on Altaïr's mercy, making up for his mistake, it seemed counterproductive to go against that.

“You’ve been with men,” Altaïr finally guessed, lifting his head so their gazes met.

“I am no virgin,” Malik growled, his usual annoyance at the man flaring up again.

“Then I assume I don’t have to instruct you, as I did your brother,” the sultan returned mildly and Malik was dumbstruck for a moment at the image that put in his head. Then the sultan closed the distance between them to kiss him, distracting him from further thought.

The man kissed like he attacked, moving in swift and sure to take Malik’s lips with the self-same confidence he wore every day. When Malik returned the kiss, Altaïr's tactic changed and he was suddenly pliant, allowing Malik to thrust his tongue inside his mouth, feeling him out like when they had fought. Malik finally nipped at his lower lip, irritated by the unusual passivity, and it elicited a growl from the other man that vibrated through their locked lips and straight to Malik's cock. He bit the man again, not hard enough to draw blood but enough to get Altaïr to shift his demeanor once more. His grip on Malik's hip abruptly tightened as he ground his erection against Malik's and kissed him back with a fierceness that felt more appropriate.

Malik resisted when he was pushed back against the pillows, but with his arm tangled up between them, Altaïr eventually won, following to seal their mouths together again. The sultan dragged blunt fingernails down the outside of Malik's thigh before sliding his hand along the inside to cup the outline of the erection at the apex. Malik hissed and twisted, half-wanting to escape the man’s touch and half-wanting to thrust into it. Fingers curved around his length to stroke through his pants but the rhythm was maddeningly slow. He was nearly to the point of shoving the sultan aside to take himself in hand, when Altaïr suddenly moved his hand away and broke their kiss. They were both flushed and panting now but as Malik stared in confusion, Altaïr seemed to visibly collect his control before rolling over to lean back against the cushions.

“Use your mouth,” he instructed, although his voice was rough and the commanding look in his eyes was lessened somewhat by his pupils being blown wide. There was a note of challenge in his voice, as if he expected Malik to refuse, and that is what clued Malik in to what he meant.

 _Of course_ , he thought, trying not to scowl and failing. _It_ is _a punishment, after all._ And he had agreed to anything.

Altaïr obligingly spread his legs so Malik could settle between them, looking every bit like the cat that had caught the canary. Malik ignored that air of smugness as he tried to find a comfortable position. He had to lean on the stub of his left arm in order to undo the ties on Altaïr's breeches, and every time he shifted, it ground his own cock against the mattress in a manner that was half-painful, half-relieving.

As long as it had been since he last slept with someone, it was even longer since he'd done this, and yet the musky scent of the other man's sex was still familiar. Altaïr groaned when Malik finally freed his cock and gave it a few firm strokes. He didn't have to look up to know that golden gaze was locked onto him; he could practically feel it. He was a little surprised when, as he shifted his hand to lift himself in preparation for taking Altaïr's length in his mouth, the man's hand slid down to hold himself steady the the root. Malik didn't waste time feeling grateful; he simply bent and slid his lips around the sultan's cock.

His remark to Altaïr had been true: he wasn't a virgin, not for men or women, but this was only something he'd done once or twice and so he was unaccustomed to the stretch. He breathed through his nose and tried to relax, but it took a couple tries before he sank deep enough for his lips to brush Altaïr's fingers. He kept his tongue tight against the length and was pleased when Altaïr made a choked-off noise as Malik swallowed before rising back up again. As Malik moved with more confidence, a hand crept into his hair to cup the back of his head and Altaïr's hips began to rock up.

The sultan thrust leisurely, apparently content to let Malik do most of the work, but judging by his occasional moan, he was enjoying himself. His fingers twitched whenever Malik took him as deep as he could, and he hissed when Malik allowed the faintest scrape of teeth before pulling back to tongue the head.

Malik's own arousal was a persistent ache that seemed to drown out all else. He moved against the mattress restless, but it did not feel nearly as good as Altaïr's hand, as much as it pained him to admit. As he increased the tempo he was using on Altaïr, he tried to do the same for himself and couldn't help the muffled moan that escaped as a result.

He hadn't realized Altaïr was close to the edge but that moan, and the vibration that accompanied it, was apparently enough to push him over. The fingers in Malik's hair tightened suddenly and then the cock on his tongue jerked as hot, bitter seed filled his mouth. Malik swallowed reflexively, grimacing at the taste and waiting impatiently for Altaïr to release him. When the man finally did, it was with a sigh as he fell back against the pillows, eyes closed and expression content. Malik struggled to sit up, rubbing at his swollen lips with the back of his hand and no closer to finding his own release than before.

If he was honest with himself, he had expected more, but either he assumed wrongly about how far Altaïr had gone with Kadar, or Altaïr wasn't as interested in conquering him as Malik had thought. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to will his erection away, at least until he could get someplace private. When he opened them again, Altaïr was watching him with half-lidded golden irises.

“Will there be anything else, Your Majesty?” Malik said, striving for a cool, collected tone and instead sounding somewhat strained.

Instead of answering, Altaïr just smiled and that was Malik's only warning. Moving quicker than Malik would have expected for someone luxuriating in post-orgasmic bliss, Altaïr sat up and grabbed Malik’s wrist, tugging him forward even as he rolled to pin him against the cushions, trapping his only arm over his head.

“We have all night,” Altaïr murmured as he bent to lick between the bones at Malik’s collar, continuing up from there to scrape his teeth along his Adam’s apple. He settled his weight more firmly across Malik’s hips and the other man grunted at the sudden, blessed friction against his cock. He tried to move, to rock towards that much-needed release, but Altaïr slid a hand down his side to hold his hips still, still smirking.

“No, I don’t think I’ll let you have release just yet,” he continued in that low, deadly voice of his and Malik’s eyes widened with outraged fury. “You never asked what your punishment was.”

Realizing he'd been played, Malik stifled a growl of annoyance and instead snapped, “And?”

“Your punishment is to enjoy yourself...” Altaïr's self-satisfied smirk was almost too much, combined with the pause he was intentionally drawing out.

“But?” Malik bit out.

“You may not come until I tell you.”


	6. Chapter 6

Morning brought with it the pleasant ache of muscles put to good use and a variety of lesser pains from bite marks and scratches. Before Altaïr had even opened his eyes, he was smiling.

His room lacked a window but he guessed it was still early, the sun probably just cresting the horizon. The chamber was suffused with the soft light from oil lamps; vaguely, he remembered hearing a servant come in to re-light them. Now, he turned his head to look at the man sprawled beside him.

Malik appeared to be sleeping, lying on his stomach with his head turned away. Even at rest, he kept his left arm away from where Altaïr might brush against it accidentally. He'd been touchy enough hours earlier when Altaïr ran his fingers across the bandages, but Altaïr suspected that was pride more than any lingering pain. The blanket had slipped low as they slept, now only coming up to his hips, and Altaïr took in the sight with pleasure.

Malik had his own set of reminders scattering his skin: impressions of teeth on one shoulder, a dark, reddish mark at the nape of his neck and finger-print bruises on his hips. Altaïr remembered digging his fingers in, both to keep Malik still and to fight the urge to lose control too soon. He was looking forward to seeing if the bruises were high enough to show even after Malik dressed. He rarely marked Kadar, but tangling with Malik had been every bit the rough affair he'd anticipated and both of them had had plenty of hostility to burn off

Wondering if Malik might be feigning sleep, Altaïr ran his hand down that sculpted back and was pleased when Malik didn't immediately jerk away from his touch.

“If you are looking for someone to cuddle with, you should summon one of your women,” the reluctant concubine drawled, not bothering to roll over and face him. Altaïr grinned as he bent closer.

“And if I want something else...?” he murmured, pressing his lips to one of the scars on Malik's lower back. There was a loud sigh above him.

“It is no wonder you have a harem of women, if your needs are so insatiable,” Malik muttered but still he didn't move. Altaïr's smile only widened.

“Your brother has never complained.”

The other man finally propped himself up enough to turn and give him a scowl, before pushing himself up completely and swinging his legs over the side of the bed. It was not quite the reaction Altaïr had been looking for. He watched with some confusion as Malik slid to the edge of the mattress and looked around, possibly for his clothes. His next words caught Altaïr completely by surprise.

“Will you let us leave now?”

For a moment, Altaïr could only stare at Malik's back before a bewildered, “What?” escaped his lips. In the meantime, Malik located his pants and began pulling them on, the ease of practice making up for his missing hand.

“You've gotten what you wanted: a chance to bed us both. Now you'll just grow bored with us as you have with your women,” Malik continued, his tone surprisingly calm, almost matter-of-fact. Once finished, he turned to face Altaïr and despite his mussed hair and half-dressed state, he seemed more collected than the sultan himself.

Irritated by the feeling that he'd somehow lost his footing on an eagle's perch and by Malik's change of heart—he'd seemed happy enough last night—Altaïr sat up with a scowl of his own. Before he could reply, though, there was a sharp knock on the door before it opened without waiting for his consent. Now furious, Altaïr turned to snap at the intruder for their audacity.

“Your Majesty,” Maria said as she took two steps into the room and bowed quickly. Her tone held both apology and worry. “Robert de Sable and his men are at the gate.”

“ _What?_ ”

“It looks to be about the same size army as last time but they're better prepared,” she went on, and he realized belatedly that she was wearing full armor and her sword. “They have a battering ram and they've brought shields to protect those who are using it.”

Altaïr climbed off the bed, cursing violently, and crossed the room to where his armor and fresh clothes were laid out. As he began to dress, Maria moved to his side to help with the fastenings, while Malik just watched in silence. Altaïr tried to put the man's words out of his mind for now, knowing they would only be a distraction. Working together, he and Maria were finished in minutes and he strode out of the room as he tightened the straps on his wrist-blade. Maria passed him his sword as they entered the hall.

“Where are the men who were on patrol?” he growled, making final adjustments as they walked.

“They haven't returned. Either Robert beat them here or they've been killed.”

“Archers?”

“Already on the walls. The bulk of Robert's army is staying back while they use the ram, though we have managed to hit a few of them.” They wound their way through the corridors, heading towards the rear of the castle. Servants hurried past bearing baskets of bandages and rags, and occasionally a guard was seen, heading towards the gate. Altaïr's hands clenched unconsciously into fists as they passed through one last doorway into early morning sunshine. The towering wall that surrounded the castle rose before him but when he started towards the lone ladder, Maria grabbed his arm.

“Altaïr, it is likely Robert will breach the gate,” she said.

“If he does,” he snapped, “then he's your responsibility. _I_ intend to see he does not have the chance to step foot inside this castle.” Maria simply nodded so he turned away to scale the ladder. At the top of the wall, he glanced over his shoulder to see men at the other end of the castle, many with bows in hand. They would be the distraction he needed to sneak around behind Robert's men and move through the ranks; he only hoped they could hold the enemy off long enough.

Facing forward, he stepped up onto the parapet and dove off without hesitation, trusting the hay below to cushion his fall.

~~~

As soon as Altaïr and Maria left, Malik snatched up his crumpled vest and hobbled out of the room as quickly as he could, despite his sore thighs. He didn't see Altaïr or Maria ahead of him as he headed for the harem chamber, so he assumed they took a different route.

When he'd first awoken, he had been perfectly content to lie there, feeling more relaxed than he'd been in weeks. For a while, he'd just listened to the sound of Altaïr breathing and tried to calm the thoughts tumbling through his head. He thought about finding the hidden blade—or _any_ weapon—and attempting his plan of escape, but he suspected Altaïr would have woken up. He grudgingly admitted to himself Altaïr was a talented lover, and his uninhibited enthusiasm was something Malik had never seen in the men and women he'd previously bedded. Yet as incredible as the sex had been, Malik stood by what he'd said to the sultan. The thrill had lain in conquering them and now that even Malik had submitted to him, the man would grow bored. By asking to leave, Malik was just cutting short the wait until Altaïr released them.

A resonating _thud_ vibrated through the walls of the castle and shook Malik from his thoughts. Ignoring the dull ache in his injured foot, he quickened his steps and came through the harem entrance to find the chamber was in chaos.

There were guards everywhere but they no longer looked bored; instead, they were discussing strategy or moving furniture together as if setting up a barricade. Most of the bedding had been shoved to either side of the room and servants were setting out basins of water with rags and bandages. A man with an arrow protruding from his shoulder was lying in the cleared out space, being attended to by two women. The concubines huddled off to the side, their expressions fearful. Kadar was hovering in the middle of all of this, looking torn between which group he should be helping, but as Malik entered the chamber, he rushed to his side.

“Malik! They're saying we're under attack...?”

“It's Robert. He's attempting to breach the gate.” Another rumble went through the walls and one of the women uttered a muffled sob. Malik debated only a moment before moving to the wounded soldier's side. The servants attending the man glanced up, startled, but he only bent to retrieve the sword belt they had set aside.

“Kadar, help me with this.”

Ignoring the stares from everyone else in the room, they worked together to get the belt settled around Malik's hips. He still felt incredibly bare in his current outfit but it had been years since he wore armor and he couldn't waste time finding some now. He strode towards the entrance, staring down the dumbfounded guards that were in his way.

“Move,” Malik said, his tone clipped. “I can fight better than most of you and you know it.” When one man's gaze darted to Malik's missing arm, he had to restrain the urge to hit him. Another rumble shook the castle as Malik tried to keep his temper from fraying any further. “If Robert breaks through, you will need all the help you can get _out there_ , not in here.”

The soldiers exchanged looks, seemingly torn, and Malik wondered if he was going to have to fight his way through. Then help came from an unexpected source.

“Let them through,” Maria barked, striding into the room with a grim expression. Malik felt a brief flash of gratitude towards the woman, but then he re-played her words in his mind. Glancing over his shoulder, he found Kadar right behind him, the wounded soldier's dagger in his hand. Their eyes met and Malik opened his mouth to order his brother to stay but the fierce stubbornness on Kadar's face told Malik nothing he said would keep the young man here.

“Stay close,” was what he finally grumbled. Relief flared briefly in Kadar's eyes as he nodded. The two followed Maria out of the room and down the hall.

She led them through the door they had not seen since their arrival, into the grand courtyard that opened to the front gate. Once outside, it was impossible to miss the thunderous slam of the ram against the gate and the creaking of the wood. Malik's gaze darted around, noting the archers on the wall and the soldiers gathered before the doors. Above them, someone shouted, “Release!” and the air filled with the hum of bowstrings let go. Maria muttered a curse.

“The army must be moving in, if we've started firing again,” she said.

“Where is Al--uh, the sultan?” Kadar asked as they moved to join the soldiers.

“Out there, apparently taking out Robert single-handedly,” Maria said, waving her hand at the gate. The battering ram hit it again and there was a definite splintering sound, though it did not fall. She drew her sword and began to shout orders to the soldiers. Malik glanced at his brother.

Kadar was no expert with weapons, but he was at least trained. Malik would have preferred he stayed inside, where it was less likely he'd see battle, but so long as they stayed together, he should be okay. As if sensing his thoughts, Kadar looked away from the gate and stepped closer. Malik wanted to offer some sort of last-minute advice, but as he opened his mouth, the battering ram connected with the gate one final time and with a screech of metal hinges ripping free from rock, it came crashing down. On its heels was a swarm of men in white tabards and shining chainmail.

~~~

Kadar had fought beside his brother before, but never against so many, or with so many allies behind them. The soldiers lined up in front of the gate took the brunt of the attack but as more of their enemy continued to pour in, the sultan's men fanned out to either side to prevent them from advancing. Malik moved with Mistress Thorpe, rushing forward to meet Robert's men, and Kadar trailed behind, suddenly feeling under-equipped with just the dagger he'd taken. At first, he was only a spectator, as every man that went up against his brother or the mistress fell almost immediately with a spray of blood. He expected no less of Malik, but Mistress Thorpe was surprisingly vicious. She moved with the same confidence and surety as his brother, like her sword was just an extension of her arm, and though her opponent occasionally scored a hit, more often than not it bounced off armor and he wasn't given a second chance.

Kadar stayed alert for any of the chainmail clad soldiers who happened to slip by when his would-be protectors were tangling swords with another. A quick parry, a kick to the gut, and Kadar slit a man's throat before Malik could turn to check on him. Once his brother saw the dead man on the ground, he simply nodded and turned his attention back to the horde in front of them.

It seemed endless. Kadar's ears rang with the sound of clashing metal and men's screams, and more and more often he found himself facing off against someone who had made it past the others. His body, unused to the continuous fighting, began to tire but he hadn't realized the extent of his weariness until he misjudged a downward swing from his opponent.

The blade met his dagger as he raised it to parry, then slid off with a shriek of metal to bite deep into Kadar's arm. He cried out and dropped his weapon as numbing pain radiated from the wound. The soldier smiled mirthlessly when Kadar retreated a step but then man froze, his body jerking once as if struck. As he crumpled, Kadar saw Mistress Thorpe had been his savior, the dagger in her other hand now wet with fresh blood. Malik backed toward them, wary of an enemy taking advantage of their distraction, and he paled when he saw his brother's arm.

“Go to the harem chamber,” he said. “They can clean it there.”

“But--”

“You can't help us like that, Kadar. Just go!”

Malik's face was covered in sweat and dust but underneath it Kadar saw a weariness that rivaled his own. He looked beyond Malik towards the gate, where enemy solders were still fighting their way in, and he was struck by the sudden terrible thought that they couldn't win this fight. The idea that they would fail, that Malik might fall to another man's sword while Kadar was nursing his wound inside, rooted him to the spot with fear. Even as Malik shouted again for him to leave, Kadar could only stare in mute shock as a familiar face appeared at the gate: Robert de Sable.

Whether on purpose or unintentionally, a space had cleared around Robert, his own men running to either side to meet the wall of the sultan's solders, leaving their commander to survey the battle with smug satisfaction. He, too, knew it was only a matter of time, that his sheer force in numbers would eventually overcome the castle's defenders. Kadar felt a sharp pang of hopelessness right before a flash of white moved behind Robert.

Kadar was staring in that direction the whole time and yet he never saw Altaïr until he struck. Robert simply jerked and then a familiar white-cowled figure was behind him. The victorious smile drained from Robert's face but instead of collapsing, he seemed to sag very gently to the ground, disappearing from Kadar's line of sight behind the wall of clashing bodies. The men in chainmail continued to rush forward as Kadar watched, desperate for a glimpse of Altaïr, who had also vanished. A moment later, a cry went up.

“The Eagle! The Eagle of Masyaf!”

It almost sounded like a battle cry, but the man who had shouted instead sounded terrified. The flood of enemies flowing into the castle through the gate slowed and then abruptly reversed. The cry went up again, echoing around them in tones of surprise and then triumph, once the sultan's men took it up. Kadar could see soldiers at the gate dropping like stones and occasionally caught a glimpse of a white hood.

“Robert is dead!”

That seemed to be the final straw for the soldiers who had been fighting so confidently only moments before. As the news was repeated, many either dropped their weapons and raised their hands in surrender, or turned tail to flee. Most who ran came to an abrupt halt when greeted with the sight of Altaïr, his robe splattered with blood and bodies littering the ground around him.

A cheer went up from the sultan's men. The battle was over.

“We did it,” Kadar breathed and felt weak with relief. Malik was looking around like he couldn't believe it was over so quickly, but Maria began shouting to round up the prisoners and take the wounded inside.

Reminded of his wound by a throb of pain, Kadar looked down and felt another wave of dizziness roll through him. He had his hand pressed against it but blood continued to ooze through his fingers, making him wonder now just how much he had lost. He felt suddenly flushed, despite the air around them being only a little warm. When he looked up, he saw Malik was frowning in the gate's direction and Altaïr had started towards them. Before he could say anything, though, the ground seemed to tilt and Kadar felt his knees give out. As the darkness at the edges of his vision rushed to swallow him, he wondered why Malik's shout of his name seemed to have an echo to it.

~~~

“Kadar!”

Malik dropped to his knees as his brother collapsed, his limbs a disturbingly boneless sprawl. He barely had a chance to lean close and confirm he was still breathing before Altaïr skidded to a halt beside them.

“What happened?” he demanded.

“He was injured,” Malik snapped, seeing as the blood covering Kadar's arm made it quite obvious. He pressed a hand to the wound and wondered how he would get his brother inside, but no sooner had the thought crossed his mind, than Altaïr pushed him—gently but firmly—out of the way so he could get his arms under Kadar's shoulder and knees. When he stood, he lifted the young man with him.

“Maria, take care of things out here,” he ordered and, with Malik following closely on his heels, he hurried into the castle.

The harem chamber was much more crowded than before, wounded soldiers practically covering ever inch of the floor. The concubines had been roped into helping treat them, though many were pale and wide-eyed as they wrapped a man's arm or dabbed at a messy cut. Altaïr's presence didn't help for as soon as he entered, a cheer went up and many looked ready to swarm him. The sight of Kadar in his arms made the crowd stop and they looked even more confused when Malik stepped forward.

“Clear a space.” There was a moment or two of silence after he spoke, but apparently that hesitation was enough to snap Altaïr's temper.

“Do it!” he barked, and everyone scrambled to obey. “And bring me water and clean bandages.”

A space was made at the center of the room and Malik followed Altaïr to where he knelt and set Kadar down gently. A moment later, a nervous young serving girl appeared with a basin and another hurried over with bandages. Malik and Altaïr reached for a cloth at the same time, bristled and sent each other identical glares, before Altaïr snatched one up and dipped it in the water. Malik took another cloth and wet it and as Altaïr began to mop up the blood surrounding Kadar's wound, Malik pressed his cloth to his brother's forehead, worried at how pale he was. As the water trailed down his temples and into his hair, Kadar stirred.

“Malik?” he mumbled, blinking open his eyes. He looked around in confusion then hissed in pain and lifted his head to see what Altaïr was doing.

“Be more careful,” Malik snapped at the sultan. There was a moment where everyone in the room—except the three of them—seemed to hold their breath and wait, but Altaïr simply gave him a flat look before returning to rinsing out the wound. There was a collective sigh of relief around them, although Malik sensed many were wondering why the sultan hadn't reprimanded his concubine.

“I'm fine,” Kadar said with a weak smile, and Malik snorted.

“You are not 'fine',” Altaïr corrected him, giving his arm a final inspection before he smeared a pungent salve across the gash. Kadar winced but this time Malik bit back his comment. As he watched Altaïr clean his hands and begin wrapping Kadar's arm, he could tell he was being gentle. “However, this will heal, given time.”

Malik felt a knot of tension ease inside him at those words, despite his guessing in the courtyard that the wound didn't look fatal. He reached out to ruffle Kadar's hair affectionately and then both brothers were startled when Altaïr slipped his arms under Kadar and picked him up again. Altaïr seemed to wait for Malik to get to his feet and then he headed for the chamber's archway.

“Where are we going?” Kadar asked, bewildered.

“You need to rest,” was all he said.

It became clear as Malik followed the man that they were headed for his personal rooms. There were no guards outside it now, and Malik had left the door open, so Altaïr strode in and moved right to the bed. The pillows and blankets were still a mess from last night, though it felt like days had passed since then. As Malik moved to the other side of the bed, he watched the sultan set his brother down carefully and arrange a few pillows for Kadar's comfort. Then he bent, cupped a hand against Kadar's cheek and kissed him.

Aside from the occasional look, this was the first evidence Malik had seen of their affection, and he was annoyed to feel his cheeks grow warm as he looked away. The moment stretched on until Kadar made a faint noise that was almost a whimper when the sultan finally pulled away. Feeling it was safe, Malik turned back to them and found the sultan watching _him_ now. He was grateful for the span of mattress that separated him from any gesture of Altaïr's.

“I'll return later,” the sultan murmured to Kadar, and then he slipped away, probably to make sure that everything outside was progressing smoothly.

With Altaïr gone, Malik's own exhaustion dropped over him without warning, the stress and strain from last night through till now finally catching up. He moved around to the other side of the bed and dropped onto it with a grateful sigh. After a moment, he shifted closer so he could put his arm around Kadar, the contact somewhat reassuring. His brother's cheeks were also a little pink and he was staring at his hands in an awkward silence. Malik only wanted to rest and not discuss anything in relation to sultan, so he said nothing, simply leaning his head back and closing his eyes.

“Malik,” Kadar said slowly after a moment of silence. “Are those...bruises on your hips?”

~~~

The sun was at its peak, bearing down mercilessly and reflecting off the hard-packed dirt to heat up the courtyard of the castle. It was not helping Altaïr's mood, which despite their victory, was rather poor. He was hot and tired and wanted nothing more than to collapse in bed with the brothers, but instead he was out here, staring at several lines of trussed up soldiers.

Their chainmail and weapons had been removed and dumped in a pile off to the side. A group of his men had been dispatched to find their camp. Now, he just had to decide what to do with them. Altaïr sighed.

“Where is Rauf?” he said, glancing over his shoulder. Maria stood a little behind him and the captains who'd survived the battle stood just behind her.

“He fell during the battle, Your Majesty,” one of his men said, wincing when Altaïr cursed.

Maria was in charge of the castle's affairs but Rauf had kept the army in order, handling the more mundane decisions and acting as combat instructor. This was usually the sort of task Altaïr would give over to him. Keeping the prisoners meant more mouths to feed but there truly was no reason to. They could hardly be ransomed off when their commander was dead and Altaïr had limited space for prisoners of war.

“Let them go,” he finally said, waving a hand at the group. “I assume they had coin on them?” Several of the captains nodded. “Give them a bare minimum and send them packing to the nearest port with only that and the clothes on their back. If any are spotted in my lands again, they will be killed on sight.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” the gathered men replied in unison and hastened to obey. Altaïr turned away, starting for the castle before pausing to look over his shoulder towards the gate. It would take weeks to repair the damage the battering ram had done but already his men were working to build a temporary gate that would at least deter anyone from wandering in.

“We will increase the numbers on guard duty, so we are not taken by surprise again,” Maria spoke up, having followed him.

“Did you find the missing patrols?”

“One of them returned about an hour ago. We haven't heard from the other group yet.” Altaïr sighed again, this time in irritation.

“Do you need me out here?” he asked bluntly, too tired to mince words when they both knew what he wanted.

“No, but there is the matter of the harem,” Maria replied and hid a smile when he rolled his eyes.

“What about it?”

“With all the injured taking refuge there, it is hardly a suitable place for the sultan's concubines. Their...virtue may become compromised.”

Altaïr stared at her, trying to see the meaning behind her words instead of letting his temper answer for him. It was unlikely that his men would try to take advantage of the women, especially considering the state most of them were in. On the other hand, he knew his soldiers could be in a celebratory mood after battle so it wasn't an impossibility.

“How much coin did we collect from Robert's men?” Maria gave him a number that was fairly high, especially considering they would probably find more once they located their camp. Altaïr thought for a moment before coming to a decision.

“Wait a day or two and then send the women away,” he said. “Divide the coin between them so that they have enough to go wherever they please, just make sure they are all gone. _If_ one of my soldiers has broken the rules, just send them along as well.” Considering the circumstances, the usual penalty of death seemed overly strict.

“As you command, Your Majesty,” Maria replied, and her smile told him he'd guessed correctly at what she was hinting.

“I'm going to retire to my rooms now. I do not want to be disturbed unless absolutely necessary.” He gave her a long look, to which she chuckled.

“Of course, Your Majesty.”

As Altaïr made his way back to his room, he considered the consequences of his decision. By dismissing the harem, he would no longer have an excuse to keep Malik and Kadar at the castle. However, he wasn't willing to let them leave just because Malik was too stubborn to admit he enjoyed Altaïr's attentions. Kadar was content, of that Altaïr had no doubt, but if his brother left, Kadar would go with him. After last night, Altaïr had intended to placate Malik with more freedom to roam about the castle, until the man realized this wasn't such a bad life, after all.

His steps slowed as he neared his room, adopting a more careful stride so that he could enter the chamber noiselessly. Malik and Kadar were asleep on the bed, leaning against each other, and neither noticed when Altaïr slipped in and eased the door shut. He wanted nothing more than to climb in with them, armor be damned, but instead he moved to the side and began to strip. There was a basin of water on the table beside the armor stand and once he'd peeled down to just his breeches, he gratefully scrubbed off some of the grime from the battle. When he turned around, he found Malik watching him with half-slitted eyes.

“My men tell me you were quite a sight to behold, in the heat of battle,” Altaïr said quietly, crossing to the bed.

“They would not be so impressed if they had better training,” Malik murmured dryly.

“An excellent point.”

Malik frowned slightly, though it was unclear whether this was because of Altaïr's words or because he was now climbing onto the bed from the other side.

“My combat instructor is dead,” Altaïr went on. “I don't suppose you know of someone who could take his place?”

The furrow between Malik's brows deepened.

“Are you mocking me? You can't in all seriousness be asking me to take his place. Me, a cripple.”

Altaïr took a moment to inspect Kadar's bandage, but it looked like it could wait a few hours before changing. He brushed at the hair stuck to Kadar's forehead by dried sweat before finally meeting Malik's gaze.

“I have neither the time nor the patience and Maria refuses to teach anyone,” he said calmly. “Of all the people in the castle right now, that makes you the next best fighter.” Malik stared at him for a minute or two, perhaps trying to piece apart his reasoning.

“So you've grown tired of us already?” he asked, a faintly cynical note in his voice.

“I never said that.”

Malik chewed on this for another brief pause.

“What of your harem?”

Altaïr snorted, barely containing the urge to roll his eyes.

“They're being set free in the next day or two,” he explained. “There is no more harem.”

“Then Kadar and I...?”

“Are free to go, yes. But your sword skills would be welcome here, among other things.” Altaïr dropped his voice to a low purr at the end, meeting Malik's eyes with some of the heat from last night. He slung an arm over Kadar's hips and closed his eyes, curling up against the young man's side. Malik was silent but Altaïr could practically hear the wheels turning in his mind as he struggled to take in all that had been said. Altaïr resisted the desire to smirk.

“If you are still here when I wake,” he said, eyes still closed, “I will take that as your answer.”

After another minute or two of contemplation, he felt the mattress shift as Malik settled down again. Smiling to himself, Altaïr drifted to sleep.


End file.
